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\ . 

Issued Semi-Monthly By 


New Series No. 290 University Study No. 21 

July 15, 1924 
Norman, Oklahoma 




losEi'H Francis Paxton. Editor. 

Issued Scmi-Monthly By 


Norman. Oklahoma 


Much water has flowed under (and over) Oklahoma bridges 
since the first edition of our University Anthology was published, 
in 1921. That edition had defects all too numerous, but it must 
also have possessed merits, as letters filled with kindly and flat- 
tering comment came to me from as far east as Pennsylvania, 
and as far west as California, not to mention many from Okla- 
homa folk who wrote and praised the publication. 

Marshal Foch's official card with his thanks reached me after 
he received a copy of the Anthology; Clemenceau sent his card; 
King Albert of Belgium sent a note of warm praise and thanks 
for the poem "To Belgium." All things considered, nothwith- 
standing some deserved adverse criticism, and some other rather 
trifling or negligible in character, the first issue of a selection of 
Oklahoma University verse was, I believe, fairly successful. 

Many new voices are to be heard herein — new, that is, as 
far as the Anthology is concerned. All are worth hearing, but 
those who have received most public recognition are Muna Lee 
and the McDougal sisters (Mary Carmack and Violet), who 
are former students here and wrote verse while here. The Smart 
Set editors and others have had the good taste to accept and 
print many of Lynn Riggs's poems, and Mr. Riggs's discriminating 
editorship of a page of verse in our Oklahoma Magazine has 
helped me greatly in making my selections for this issue. Many 
new, charming, and interesting poems by Maurice Kelley, Eliza- 
beth Ball, Lyndal Swofford, May Frank, Roy Temple House, 
Sardis Roy HadscU, Mary McKinney, Edward Everett Dale, 
"and others too numerous to mention," appear in these pages. I 
have tried faithfully to rouse several somnolent Pegasi, but all in 

Mrs. D. A. McDougal, of Sapulpa, generously offered a 
prize of $25 last year for the best poem by an Oklahoman. The 
prize was awarded to Mrs. Jennie Harris Oliver, of Fallis, and 
her poem "Noon Trail" appears herein, tho the University cannot 
claim Mrs. Oliver in any way. The judges were Mrs. Blachly 
(Miriam Oatmanl, Roy Temple House, and the writer. 

Members of the University faculty, past or present, contri- 

buting to this issue are designated by a note where their first 
contribution appears. Others, excepting Mrs. Oliver, and possi- 
bly Miriam Oatman (Mrs. Blachly), are, or have been, students 
of the University. Some could be classified both ways. 

Hearty thanks are due the University of Oklahoma Maga- 
zine for much good material. I have not tried to give repeated 
credit. This publication, under the careful editorship of Miss 
Grace Ray, Department of Journalism, is now to be a literary 

I wish to thank our University Registrar, Dr. Roy Gittinger, 
and Mrs. Gladdie Goode, of the Registry office, for efficient help 
in putting this bulletin thru the press. 

Professor of Greek and Classical Archeology. 

University of Oklahoma. 

Norman, Okla. 
May, 1924. 


Tliis edition of the University of Oklahoma Anthology is 
respectfully dedicated to Mrs. D. A. McDougal, of Sapulpa, 
Oklahoma, mother of two highly i)rized contributors to its con- 
tents, the first person, as far as I know, to offer a prize for 
the best poem by an Oklahoman, and herself a vivid and inter- 
esting personality both as a publicist and as a woman. 




Aloft on a swaying spray sits he 

And chants the wood's full minstrelsy, 

While I dig deep in my garden plot 

To make spuds grow where they did not. 

Poet and peasant we. Full well he knows 

That poems are needed as well as prose. 

-Francis Paxton. 

THE univp:rsity anthology 

I would that I possessed an airy grace 
To please the fineness of you, delicate 
Fair features, winning manners, such a face 
As would fulfill your dreams in every trait. 
I wish that I might play an elfin lute 
To set the verses of your heart to song 
Then might I, dancing, laughing, never mute, 
Go caroling your thoughts the whole day long. 
I would I knew the secret web of. love 
To snare you in its meshes, warp and woof, 
I wish I might do anything above 
These daily thoughts and words for my heart's proof, 

For now, to win your love I long to be 
Transformed into all graces fairily. 

But now I said I would not think again 
These long thoughts of spring days, and nevermore 
Tell over the quick joy in petal-rain, 
In bending clover, in May's subtle lore, 
For this new love was but a dream of May, 
Born of moon-magic, sweet, exotic, strange, 
A love fulfilled in one enchanted day, 
A love of fragile beauty, doomed to change 
And pass away as some old galleon 
Might glide with all its dreams about it, far 
Into the path of sunset, on and on 
Leaving but memories rippling the bar. 

Lost memories of May are sad, and yet 
Even in sadness I would not forget. 

I had not thought a day could come and go 
Dawn, noon, and dusk, without the thought of yoM 
Like a tall taper shedding its soft glow 
Above my work as it had come to do 
In those past days. My life was as a room 


Lit by a single candle, richly dim 

With poetry and mystical perfume 

And hallowed strains like organs at a hymn. 

I had not thought that other days could be, 

And yet I walk in places strange and high 

Where there are starry tapers over me 

Hung from the ceiling of the open sky. 

How could I know a dream might slip away 
Into the storied rooms of yesterday? 

—Elizabeth Ball. 


I send you the charm of the redlands 
In debonair disguise, 
With the glimmer of tawny sunlight 
And the mad blue of skies, 

And the quaint blue of asters 
That bob in the fields and nod. 
With a riot of leaves a-falling, 
And gay goldenrod; 

And were I an Indian chieftain 
In the pride of mj' hunting days, 
I would send you a hundred ponies 
And half a harvest of maize; 

But I send you a dreamer's treasures 
On mists that hover and rise, 
In the glimmer of tawny sunlight 
To the mad blue of skies. 

—Elizabeth Ball. 


Tall poplar wraiths that sway and stir 
And beckon to the phantom-fir. 
Ten reckless goblin winds that pass 
Amidst the tipsy tumble-grass. 
And rustling milkweed-ghosts anod 
Above the drowsy goldenrod. 

Now like an incense over all. 
The olden, eerie spell of fall. 


-Elizabeth Ball. 


She shares my seat doggedly, five days each week, 
She has taught for fifteen years, 
And her hair is henna-ed. 

She talks to me of divorces and in-laws 
While my Me's are clamoring to escape; 
And so I set 6ne Me (an unwilling Me) 
To listen and give soft answers. 

One Me I send forth through the window at Stop Five 

For that is where 

The asters ramble off in a ravine-place, 

Like minstrel-blossoms. 

At Stop Six I leave two Me's, 

One for the field where sunflowers twinkle in the kaffir, 
Another to follow the dim roadway and fTnd what happens 
When hillcrest meets sky. 

Midway I scatter a Me or two 

For the brookbeds where willows bend and sway 

With a soundless music. 

And for the old dream-haunted house in a timber. 

What is left of me goes on to the dark brick building 
And instructs small folk in sundry rudiments 
Until the evening. 

They fly back as we rumble homeward — 

All my Me's 

Quieted, and with the happy look of knowing. 

Once I forgot to gather them up at evening; 
Then they were gleeful. 
Such dreams did they bring me of ^ dew 
And moonbeam people. 

—Elizabeth Ball. 
Reprinted from The Poets of the Future, 1921-22. 



A bluff south wind tossing the dark, 

No moon, no stars or sky, 

But stricken trees that writhe and sway 

And clouds that thunder by. 

A black, chaotic night that wails 

And beats the window-pane. 

And hark, the far, weird cry of geese 

North-winging in the rain! 

-Elizabeth Ba«. 


I am a fickle singer, for in spring 

When grasses make the lane a pale-green way 

I leave my task, forsaking everything 

To follow May. 

Winter and summer claim my praises when 
Pale snowflakes flutter in a spirit-land. 
Or sunflower-faces line each path and glen, 
An eager band. 

But now, when oaks grow bronze and sumacs burn 
And birds fly south again with plaintive call, 
Forgetting loves of other days, I turn 
To sing of fall. 

—Elizabeth Ball. 


On the rack lay Jan the Robber. 

Stronger than human pain. 
Foredoomed to hang, he swore 

That no man should spend his gain. 

They cast Black Jan face downward, 

He lay there scarce alive. 
They went to build the gallows 

And sent the priest to shrive. 

Black Jan spoke low unto the priest: 

"My body, it may swing — 
Wilt pray my soul to Paradise 

For ransom of a king?" 

The priestly eyes were glowing 

As baleful as a cat's. 
He blessed Black Jan the Robber 

And dreamed of Cardinal hats. 

Black Jan gave three great rubies 

That were a mogul's pride. 
They took him to tlie gallows 

Where, laughingly, he died. 

Black Jan is lying now in hell 

Regaling the souls that pass 
With a tale of three great jewels 

Made of bright crimson glass. 

— Louis T. Barnes. 


There are many who set to building 

And little it is they do — 
The sons of gods- are many, 

But the gods themselves are few. 

—Louis T. Barnes. 

. [IIJ 


I am a woman, a cynic — 
I am old; I am young. 
I shall be young for all time 
(Even in that time when men 
Shall cease desiring lair women). 
I was born when the first two men 
Squatted in a lone tree 
Above a howling pack. 

I am a woman, 

Old as I am young, young as I am old. 
I am a woman, mistress of many men- 
Aye, Mistress! a woman of ill repute — 
Daughter of Lilith, 
Sister of Cain. 

I am fair to look on 
But my beauty is a skin 
Over corruption. 
I wear jewels; fair jewels 
I place on my brow. 
Jewels polished in blood. 
I am the eternal courtesan, 
The ever luring flame — 

To those who dare 
I offer great treasures — 
The ransom of a kingdom. 
The rape of a continent; 
To him who masters me 
I give these treasures: 
And they are few who find 
How false mv baubles are. 

-Louis T. Barnes. 



They flaunt from the wind-whipped hillsides 
Where the earth is barren and brown; 

A mist of their wonderful pinkness 
Transfigures the sordid town. 

They flutter from ragged door-yards, 
From orchards choked with grass; 

"It was here," each blossom is saying, 
"The spirit of spring did pass." 

The glory of youth is in them, 

Its promise, its first wild joy — 
Joy yet unflushed with passion, 

Hopes with no dark alloy. 

Far dearer these pale, cool blossoms, 

Than the roses that June will bring; 

The roses tell life's fulfilment, 

But these are the promise of spring. 

Rose M. Belt (Mrs. J. B. Lrabbe).* 


On top of hill at break of morn I stand 

And watch the fast-approaching day. 

At first the chilly gray of night envelopes all. 

And then a ray 

Of clear-cut light is cast 

Upon the rosy canvas of the glowing east. 

All nature seems to feel the thrill 

Of this new beacon of the day; 

And waking from their night of quiet rest. 

New voices add their sound to greet the morn. 

The sun resolved anew to do his best, 

Shines forth: 

And day is here! 

— Joseph H. Benton. 
(Instructor in Voice.) 



But once I pass this way. 
And then — no more. 

But once; and then the silent door 
Swings on its hinges, 

Opens closes, 

And no more I pass this way. 

For no man travels twice the great highway 
That climbs thru darkness up to light, 
Thru night to day. 

So while I may, 

With all my might 

I will essay 

Sweet comfort and delight 

To all I meet upon the pilgrim way. 

But once I pass this way 

And then no more. 

— Joseph H. Benton. 


Wondrous hues upon'the .western sky; 
The sigh of cattle upon a grassy slope; 
Fresh odors borne from new-cut hay: 
And evening comes. 

The colors sink below the western hill, 
On high a star sends forth its wavering beam. 
A quiet hush descends upon the land: 
And day is gone. 

— Josepli H. Benton. 



Bare branches swaying in a winter wind 
Against a gloomy, leaden sky. 

Green leaves shiinmering in ecstasy 

As warm breezes open them daily wider to the sun. 

Drooping leaves curling with heat 
Almost ready to die from thirst. 

Leaves red and golden rustling in the breeze 
And silently falling one by one. 

— F. F. Blachly. 
(Professor of Government.) 


Touch of feeling 
Gleam of light 

— F. F. Blachly. 


Radiantly beautiful goes forth the morning star 
From off the field of night now paling into grey. 
A tinge, a glow, a burst of light. 
And o'er yon snow-capped peak springs day. 

— F. F. Blachly. 


Oatmeal and eggs and toast and milk 
Will follow me all the days of my life; 
But never will they be the faery bread 
I broke with you, my faery wife. 

Boarding house mornings are much the same: 
A chair and a plate and a mouth and hands; 
But rarely does one see a face with eyes, 
The eyes of a soul that understands. 

Umbrellas and rain and rubbers and hands 

To help across a muddy street; 
But never shall I hold your hand again, 

Or put my rubbers in fun on your feet. 

And whose the arm that can clasp like yours. 

And whose the hair with the gossamer net 
That catches upon umbrellas and trees 
As my heart will cling to yours yet? 

— B. A. Botkin. 
(liistructor in English.) 


The Pond 

1 set my heart adrift once more 

Where the leaf as frailly floats; 
Boys are sailing tiny boats; 

But they all come back to shore. 
An Autumn Harmony 
Sun shines, wind blows; from sky to sod 

Sunlight and shadow span 
Infinity: Man climbs to God, 
And God descends to Man. 
The Rising 
The flood-tide of spring rolls over the earth, 

Dashing its green spray high on the trees; 
Washing the thirsty sands of my heart; 
I cry: "O, engulf me, riotous seas!" 

— B. A. Botkin. 



Like old Tiresias, I am stricken blind- 
Blind to all other beauty save your own, 
I who have seen you, burnt into my mind,. 
In loveliness more real than carven stone, 
Yet more ethereal than the feathery mist 
Of Aphrodite rising from the foam. 
Oh, in the moonlight on your flesh I kissed 
The vanished .radiance of Greece and Rome! 

Tiresias? Nay, but I am rather Jove. 
For did you not spring full-blown from my brow? 
Long had the buds been nourished in my mind 
Of your breast-flowers blooming on my bough. 
My brain is reeling now, which late you clove — 
With thoughts of grander glory still to find. 

— B. A. Botkin. 


Out of the coldness of your love 

I chisel the fever of my own; 
So is enduring beauty cut 

From the cold, chaste stone: 

Cupid and Psyche, locked in the kiss 

Of marble life-in-death. 
But how one longs for the pulse of blood 
And the warm, inspiring breath! 

— B. A .Botkin. 


Let me be a voice to drown out silence, 
Let me be a fire to burn away cold. 

Let me be a swift, strong sea-wind blowing. 
Clean and bold. 

Let me bring the salt of storm-bitter seas 

And choking tears that mingle with a crust. 

Let me be all simple, elemental things, 
Fierce and changing — because I must! 

— B. A. Botkin. 



Ah, Pierrette, 

Your Pierrot 
Would linger yet 

And will not go. 

We pirouette, 

And bow, and throw 
A kiss, and, pet! 

We've had our show. 

But we'll not let 

The mad world know, 
My Pierrette, 

It hurts us so! 

Ah. tears are wet; 

And thought is slow; 
And love's a fret; 

And a kiss a blow. 

Who'll chance? Roulette I 

A penny a throw! 
(Beauty's a net, 

And a dove a crow.) 

But we'll not let 

The bad world know, 
My Pierrette, 

It hurts us so! 

Dear Pierrette! 

I was your beau. 
Will you forget? 

Forgive? Yes. No. 

With a jest we met 

And part. Quick! blow 
A kiss, nor regret 

The wind we sow. 

For we'll not let 

The sad world know, 
My Pierrette, 

It hurts us so! 

— B. A. Botkin. 



South wind, lash me with whips, 

The tender green whips of the willow sprays. 
South wind, stab me with spears. 

The spiky green flames of April days. 

South wind, nourish my love. 

And wrap us in melting flame. 
Till she open to me like the buds, 

And I burst into stars at her name. 

— B. A. Botkin. 


Let me drink a deep breath of the freshened earth, 

Steeped in the mystical brew 
(In this wind-blown riot of sadness and mirth) 

Of blossom and herbage and dew. 

My mother is dead, and my love is alive, 

Of love and of life and of you. 
On the strength of all the dead let me thrive, 

To rise from their ashes anew. 

Like the fragrant breath of your hair in the wind 

Is the life to which I cling. 
But your breath is all that I have to bind 

My breath to the song I sing. 

— B. A. Botkin. 



Murk)' red, with tortuous tread, 
A lawless, bedless, homeless river 
Dips its head in skulking dread; 
And sand-whirls rising quiver, 
Madly race, and quake, and shiver, 
Goaded like fiery snakes and blind. 
By the ruffian roaring wind. 

Over the bridge and up the ridge. 

The ruffian jeers at the red man's steers; 

The red man's hat, like a whirling midge. 

Darts through the gale above the piers; 

The tumble-weed tacks and veers, 

In antic haste like a thing insane 

With shambling legs all crookt by pain. 

Rides on high through a dust-clad sky. 
The ceaseless, deathless, soulless wind. 
Hurls the stinging sand in the eye 
Of the sun, the sun now dim behind 
The scraggy trees that fret and grind. 
Like faltering men who strain at a task 
More than a lord has a right to ask. 

Speeding night soon drowns the light 
Of the sand-coated sun in the west; 
But ever the wind in its frenzied might, 
Drives through the dark without stop or rest, 
A tireless, shrieking, scourging pest. 
Dashing, crashing, on sand-hill and tree. 
In wave upon wave like the waves of the sea. 

-Theodore Hampton Brewer. 

(Professor of English.) 



Quilted in gray, half-melted snow 
The country road fled far into the sky. 
Shy stars glanced through the clouds to see 
The pageant of the night go by. 

Deep in the night I stood alone, 
To life defiant; then the sullen glow 
Of doubt snuffed out. I laughed to see 
The niidTiigiit passing of the snow. 

—J. H. Buckle.v 


Do you know^ the priceless laughter 
That your happy thoughts create 
When I find them waiting after 
I had thought your note was late? 

And the magic that the ages 
Holds tight locked within the past 
Is revealed throughout the pages 
From the first until the last. 

Though we ma}' not meet as often 
As we plan and promise to 
Even magic cannot soften 
All the pain until we do. 

-J. H. Buckles. 


Midnight and tlic house is still 

When memory calls, 
His mood is mine, his wish my will, 

My heart his halls. 

Midnight and a flash of lire 

That memory bears. 
He takes my hand; gone my desire. 

My present cares. 

Midnigiit and time a flower 

That memory wore. 
He takes me back for one glad liour 

A child once more. 

—J. H. Buckles. 



The silver mist trails low upon the breeze 
And breaks in lacey veils before the sun, 
As icy w^aters from their shadows .run 
To feel the touch of light; the sullen trees 
Awake and whisper as by slow degrees 
The light grows stronger, lays its touch upon 
Each twig, each leaf, for swiftly comes the dawn 
As o'er the shell-strewn barrier break the seas. 

So face to face we find our glimpse of light 
There is no solitude, no cloistered sway; 
We fill our niche until from far above 
It finds us out, then ends the darker night. 
And as the mists are driven by the day 
Some call their vision treasure, others love. 

—J. H. Buckles. 


You are a pool of burnished gold, 

Within whose depths are mirrored all men's souls. 

Clear-imaged in your heart j'ou hold 

Their faiths and failures, gains and far-sought goals. 

Under your brush slim maidens grow, 
With quiet hands and eyes of mystery, 
An air of secrets which they know, 
And, underneath, a hint of coquetry. 

Vain gallants, plumed and velvet-dressed, 

Be-ringed and jewelled like a village maid 

On holidajf — At their behest 

You painted them — and took the price they paid 

So willingly to have your name — 

A master's mark — upon their portraits signed — 

You satisfied and they the same. 

A jest. Satire and high finance combined. 

How could you be so many men: 
Poet and painter, architect and scribe — 
Past-master of the ages. When,. 

And from what far spring did you your. power imbibe? 
— Betty Coley (Mrs. Boj'nton). 



My heart is like an empty shell 
Within whose depths all ocean roars; 
I hear waves beat upon the shores, 
And the sIom^ vibrance of a bell. 

Resounding to far ocean deeps, 

Where I know it has never been. 

Its fragile walls echo a din 

Of long, slow swells and mighty sweeps 

Where fishing boats with laden nets 
Go skimming home before the gale, 
With surging keel and flapping sail 
And salt, white spray in up-flung jets. 

And as the shell of caverns sings 
Where gleaming sword-fish dart and glide. 
My heart, though it has been denied, 
Revels in dreams of wondrous things. 

Even as the shell can clasp encurled 
The whole great vastness of the sea, 
So in the simple heart of me 
Are all the loves of all the world. 

-Betty Coley. 



(She has came.) 

Since Spring is here, and I am very tired 

I haven't energy to do a thing but sit 

And smoke, and think of all the things I could 

With ease accomplish if I had the time and pep. 

It spr-ing weren't here, and I were not so tired, 
I'd be a poet and I'd write such wondrous verse. 
That even Marshburn would admit Old Milton could 
Do worse. At writing books I think I'd try my hand, 
And spin best sellers that would be in big demand. 

But Spring is here and I am tired, — 

Too tired to figure how I'd spend the coin I'd get 

From writing books and poetry and such. 

If Spring weren't here, I'd be so full of pep 
I think I'd be a singer of renown and raise 
The roof for idle mobs on Sunday afternoons. 
And Schmidt and Wall and Benton and the rest 
Would have to go to digging ditches for a change, 
Or maybe teaching math, geology, or law. 

But Spring is here, and I just smoke my Chesterfields 
And dream of notes I'd sing. The only notes I know 
Are those I sign at ten percent a month. 

If Spring weren't here, and I were not so tired, 

I'd be the marvel of the club at playing bridge. 

I'd never hold a hand without a dozen trumps 

Or more, and Downing, Shepherd and their ilk would come 

Around and ask me how to play the game. 

But cards are stacked against me,— and besides Vm tired. 
It mxust be Spring that makes me feel this way, 
I play like other dubs and get a minus score. 

And, — fondest dream of all, — if I were not so tired, 

I'd buy some mistletoe for my coat tail 

And while the rest of you are wondering if you're fired, 


I'd pin it on so all the world could see. 

I'd leave this dump and be a millionaire, or two, 

In oil, or gas, just like they do in books. 

I'd build a club-house for you birds so you could have 
A quiet session without fear of bankrupt purses 
When the rent comes due. 

I'd buy this college, too, and run it like 

A correspondence school, and Prexy and the gang 

Could have an easy time for life. 

But Spring is here, — you know the rest. This lethargy 
Afflicts me summer, fall and winter, too. 
I'm so fatigued I never do the things I could. 

I read the Oklahoman every day. I count 
The hours with quaking heart lest I be fired 
And have to go to work. 

— Fayette Copeland, Jr. 
(ITniversity Extension.) 
Spring of 1923. 



When the glowing 
Sunset leaves the 
Hills in black 
And misty lines 
And the evening 
Star is showing 
Then the Jack- 
O'-Lantern shines. 

While the black 
Night is advancing 
Children, whispering 
At the sight, 
Watch the jack- 
O'lantern dancing 
Far away 
Across the night. 

'Tis the red man's 
Strange belief 
(As many ancient 
Tales explain) 
That a wicked 
Indian chief 
Here in ancient 
Times was slain — 

By a vengeful 
Arrow fleeting 
In the growing 
Dusk, was slain, 
In a place just 
At the meeting 
Of the hill lands 
And the plain. 

And the spirit 
Of the hill lands 
Cast him out 
On to the plain, 
But the spirit 


Of the prairie 
Threw the warrior 
Back again. 

Not a spot of 
Earth would hold him- 
Not a valley, 
Not a crest — 
Not a plot of 
Ground there was 
Whereon his wicked 
Bones could rest. 

Now, when glowing 
Daylight fades 
Along the line 
Of western hill, 
Then thru growing 
Evening shades the 
Warrior's spirit 
Wanders still. 

And the children 

Know tlie story 

Of the wicked 

Indian brave. 

And when they see the 

Wavering light 

They know he's looking 

For a grave. 

-William Cunningham. 



All in jest 
Once I pressed 
To the breast 
Of my blest 
Sweet Celeste 
What I guessed 
Was tlie best 
Manly chest 
In the west. 

But my vest 
Was so messed 
She confessed 
It distressed. 
( She was dressed 
In the best 
She possessed, 
Was Celeste.) 
"I detest 
Such a pest," 
She confessed. 

All the rest 

Of my geste 

You have guessed- 


Went Celeste, 

Sweet Celeste! 

-William Cunningham. 



Oh the friendly road is calling, 

It is calling mc to go, 

It is telling me of regions far away, 

Of cities fair and wide 

By the sunny ocean side, 

But a cosy little cottage whispers "Stay." 

Oh the friendly road is calling, 

It is telling me of lands 

That lie beyond the restless, rolling sea 

Where the tropic flowers rare 

Fill with fragrance all the air — 

But the little cottage whispers "Stay with me." 

Oh the friendly road is tugging 

It is tugging at my feet, 

It is bidding them to come and wander wide 

But the cottage with more art 

Keeps a-tugging at my heart 

And I know that it can never be denied. 

Oh friendly road. I love you 

But I love another more, 

And no longer you can tempt my feet to roam — 

For the struggle now is done. 

And a little girl has won — 

There's a soul within the cottage; it is Home. 

— Edward Everett Dale. 
(Professor of History.) 


You are a flower garden 

So fragrant and so fair 

Your tulips are so crimson 

And marigold your liair. 

Your little lady-slippers 

So dainty and so neat 

Just trample on the bleeding heart 

Of your poor William sweet. 

I pray you dear, forget-me-not, 

Each bachelor-button's gone. 

So may I ask your poppy, 

To let you sew them on? 

— Edward Everett Dale. 



It is true the years are going, 

Pal o' mine. 
Were a little older growing 

Pal o' mine. 
But though years should leave their trace 
On your pretty dimpled face, 
None could ever take your place, 

Pal o' mine. 

You must know m\- love is stronger 

Pal o' mine. 
Just because I've loved you longer 

Pal o' mine. 
For though years may come and go 
You must surely, surely know 
That my love will ever grow, 

Pal o' mine. 

Then we'll travel on together, 

Pa! o' mine. 
Be it storm or sunny weather 

Pal o' mine. 
Till at last we both shall rest 
Each of us a welcome guest 
In the Islands of the Blest, 

Pal o" mine. 

— Edward Everett Dale. 


You are the apple of my eye 
Though far beyond my reach; 
You've had such careful raisin' 
You surely are a peach. 
Your father's plum disgusted 
And yet why should he care? 
For almost everjone will say 
We make a lovely pear. 
I never saw a mango 
To such extremes as he 
He says he wants no damson 
In-law at all like me! 


I tear they'll have to berry me 
Unless you give me hope — 
So tell me dearest, tell me quick 
Just why we cantalouv)e. 

— Edward Everett Dale. 


When I see a prairie schooner 
With the tongue a-pointing west, 
What a mighty nameless longing 
Always swells and fills my breast! 
For it's headed toward a country 
I shall always love the best, 
Toward a land of stars and sunshine 
Toward the prairies of the West. 

It's a wide and wondrous region, 
Naught its virgin beauty mars — 
Where the plain is strewn with blossoms 
As the sky is strewn with stars. 
Where the air so keen and bracing 
Gives to life a joy and zest, 
Makes the pulses leap and tingle. 
In the blood there runs the West. 

And I know within the schooner, 
'Neath its cover worn and brown, 
There are hearts with hope a-tingle, 
There is faith that will not down. 
Though a man may meet misfortune, 
Failure never is confessed, 
When he mounts a prairie schooner 
With the tongue a-pointing West. 

So when from the ties that bind me 
I at last shall break away. 
Leave each sordid task behind me, 
As I surely shall some day. 
When I choose a craft for cruising, 
Love or fortune as my quest, 
It will be a prairie schooner 
With the tongue a-pointing West. 

— Edward Everett Dale. 



When I was just a little kid, and always in the way, 

My ma would spread a slice of bread and send me out to play. 

I'd play about beneath the trees with marbles, bat and ball, 

Or climb upon the orchard fence or on the garden wall. 

But if that bread should drop from out my little hands so brown, 

It always struck the dusty earth. 

Butter-side Down. 

I grew a little older, and to college went away, 

I studied hard each lesson, never taking time for play. 

I burned the oil of midnight o'er my Latin and my Greek, 

I toiled both late and early through each long and weary week, 

But when examination day at last came rolling round, 

I always dropped, yes, sadly dropped, 

Butter-side Down. 

1 courted a fair maiden, and her heart I hoped to win, 

For cand}^ books and flowers spent all my surplus tin. 

She had another fellow, a tall and ugly guy, 

With hair as red as blazes and a wicked looking eye. 

But just about the tiine I thought I had him done up brown. 

She married him and let me drop, 

Butter-side Down. 

And so it's been throughout my life. I've met Dame Fortune's 

For all of my investments went butter-side down, 
I quite believe that when I leave this world of doubt and sin, 
And reach that Golden City that the righteous enter in 
When that good old man, St. Peter, presents my shining crown, 
I'll drop the everlasting thing. 

Butter-side Down. 

-Edward Everett Dale. 



There was a young man of Pawhuska 
Who called on an Indian maid dusky; 
Her father irate 
Threw him over the gate 
X)h say, but wasn't paw husky? 

There was a young lady of Claremore 

Who said to her mother, "Men stare more 

At me on the beach 

Than if I were a peach." 

Her mother said, "Dear you should wear more." 

I went to the town of Nowata — 

I nevah have seen the sun hottah; 

I wanted a bath 

And it roused up my wrath 

When the hotel man answered "No watah." 

Miss Sally Redfeather of Sallisaw 

Said no one should call a young girl a squaw; 

I said "Arn't you one?" 

She reached for her gun 

And that was the last of me Sally saw. 

There was an old lady of Delaware 

Who said to her husband "You're well aware, 

That I'm needing clothes 

But then I suppose 

You don't care what in the helaware." 

— Edward Everett Dale. 



With swirling garments disarrayed, swept by the self same 
winds that played about the Hatter's homestead lot and drove 
liim crazy on the spot, with old-time pep revived anew, Gay 
March comes dancing into view. 

Gay, gladsome, gusty March is here, the Maddest Month of 
all the year. 

Here with fascinating way of changing forty times a day, 
from snow to heat and nesting birds; then back to sleet — and 
naughty words. Now wicked breezes boom and blow and l)atter 
on the bungalow. But as it gets into high gear, the sober skies 
grow bright and clear, wliile jolly little lambkins play and frolic 
in a gladsome way, and crop the daisies on the green — a truly 
bright and peaceful scene. 

The Meadow Lark perched on a tree and spilled a lot of 
melody. The freshened breeze came up apace and blew quite 
briskly in his face, till when he reached one tender note, it blew 
the tune back down his throat. 

This passing moon must always bring that birthdaj' of the 
infant Spring. 

The sapling sleeping in the sod comes bursting from an 
earth-bound pod, up, climbing like a wind-tossed kite, up to the 
world of life and light. 

The bumble bee goes out to roam, but leaves some friends to 
guard his home. The moral here is plain to me: That is no 
proper place to bee. 

With windy days and nifty nights, with changeful ways and 
campus sights, the days drift swiftly on alone till all the thirty- 
one are flown. Just pausing on the journey fleet to fling a 
nosegay at our feet; a misty tear, a passing laugh. Below, we 
write the epitaph: 

A month of mirth and new-donned green, 
But fickle as a Freshman queen. 

— Lev Edwards. 



"The time has come," the Stewdent cried, 
"To speak of many things, 
Of campus dates and football, 
And why dad's check has wings." 

"And don't the campus look just swell?" 
"What did you do this summer?" 
"It looks like Bennie's got the stuff. 
The squad's an up-and-comer." 

"We ought to get enrolled, I think, 
Sometime, perhaps, next June."' 
"Have you seen Jimmie yet? He said, 
That he'd get in at noon." 

"i think I knew that girl somewhere — 
She looked at mc. But say 
I'd like to see a Podunk Times, 
They knew I went away." 

"Let's move this seat back in the shade." 
"Guess I'll have to blow." 
"Me have a coke? Well, I should say." 
"Some cherrv in it. bo." 

— Rolfe Engleman. 

1 35 1 


Where flaming woodlands rise to meet the sky 
On lordly hills we find the county poor, 
Storm-beaten castaways thrown here to die 
Perhaps in happy days they had been sure 
Their death would cause a loving sorrow; 
But now thej"^ see, each dreary dawn, 
The unkept patch of earth where on the morrow 
They will l)e dumped when life is gone. 

Thirteen paupers in this barren place! 
Nine hopelessly await the longed for end 
To lives that failed to win the desperate race 
With poverty. Their sagging bodies bend. 
Relentless Life has on each wretched face 
A history of despair and grieving penned. 
To four of them a mind was never born; 
They never knew Grief's night or lost Hope's morn. 
Yet of them all, all, these are the most forlorn. 

Grizzled Peter, blinded when a Jjoy, 

Has lived here thirty weary years. 

His head moves round like some fantastic toy; 

A shaking hand goes out as a stranger nears. 

He whines, "I'll sing fer a dime." 

We recognize his rhyme — 

A folk-tune of the Carolina mountaineers. 

He grabs the coins and grins with joy. 

We look at him in half-disdain. 

"A beggar once, a beggar will remain." 

His story stings our eyes with sudden tears. 

"I've saved fer thirty year fer I am boun' 

T' keep mysef frum paui)er buryin' groun'." 

Here is a pride 

That will not be denied 

Coming through poor-whites from Stuart cavaliers. 

Idiot Sal, a formless lump of flesh. 
Scoots on the floor chuckling hideously. 
She is a human travesty. 


Has she a soul held in a frightful mesh 

For forty years? And will it flutter free 

When her fat, horrid hody dies one day? 

Man is the biuigling potter who has shaped this clay 

Poor epileptic Mat with twisted hands 

And tortured body, humped and turned awry, 

Looks out on us as we come by. 

We have some books for her. She stands, 

Totters and falls there in the gloom 

Of her cold, dark room. 

As we help her up she says, "My lands! 

I'm allers fallin' down — 

That's why my bones git broke an' twisted roun'." 

Old Maggie smiles with childish glee. 

She does not notice us as we go by. 

The matron says, "Pore ol' Mis' Free. 

Her children brought her here t' die. 

She tuk on so't wuz pitiful t' see; 

Then atterwhile she didn't cry. 

Her sense is gone. It makes me glad somehow 

Thet she's fergot, fer she is happy now." 

Weazened Mart}' come just recently, 

Sits and cries. 

"When a woman tries 

T' earn a livin' they oughtta let her be. 

I had enough o' bacon, taters, flour, 'n' tea, 

T' last a week. I lived in Simpson's shed. 

They tuk it fer a car-I wisht thet I wuz dead. 

I ain't no pauper, an' I jes' cain't bear 

T' die in the porehouse. D' yuh know 

Uv a empty shanty anywhere? 

I jes' gotta go." 

We have come to say some prayers and sing a hymn or so 

The inmates, herded in, sit stiffly in a row. 

They listen stolid, numb. 

For we have failed to plumb 

The dreadful depths of their unsounded woe 

Blind Peter, only, tries to help us sing, 


His gray head going round a never ending ring, 
"Praise God from whom all blessings flow." I choke 
On such words sung to unblessed, unhappy folk. 

Our prayer falls 

On stony hearts within these poorhouse walls. 

The paupers could not say 

Wh}' they turn away. 

But they sense a falseness in us, who only come to pray. 

They resent our shallow talk 

Of Christ, while we take great care to walk 

In the easy paths He did not know, 

And forget all the places where the Son of Man would go. 

We could use His sJiining flame 

To burn out want and shame 

But we give only crumbs in His name. 

— May Frank. 
(Instructor in Journalism.) 



All skyward reaching things have dignity 
Upon the prairie. Limned against the sky 
I see the figure of a man loom high, 
Undwarfed by rivalry of hill or tree. 
On Oklahoma's plain-land big and free. 
He walks as one who knows he can rely 
Upon himself: and as he passes by 
He greets me witli a certain majesty. 

A man assumes his true proportions here; 
The lover of great spaces has no thought 
That makes for littleness. He pays no toll 
To values that the blinded world holds dear, 
The bigness of the plains is in his soul. 
For life's eternal meanings he has caught; 

— May Frank. 
Oklahoma News. 



You threw the door of hving beauty wide. 
I entered gravely, for I had waited long. 
Till then my earth-bound self had been denied. 
You gave me right of entrance with your song. 
Forgotten were the years of bondage when 
With thrilling tone you sang my spirit free. 
My exultant soul, aware of beaut>' then 
Floated and ran in silver melody. 

Once have I joyed in beauty's full delight; 
One shining hour I was of her a part. 
That hour is gone, as sunshine goes at night, 
A haunting sense of loss is in my heart. 
But still I hear your echoing harmonies ring 
And to my soul dream wisps of music cling 

— May Frank. 
"Ihe Poets of the Future. " 1921-22. 


Day after day when factory fires are dead 

The air is clean. Loitering everj^here. 

Men. sullen eyed, with grim, disheartened air 

Look darkly at the blue sky overhead. 

The stores are empty. Girls whose cheeks were red 

Sit, white faced now, within their hovels where 

Even hungry little children share 

The watch. To them black smoke means meat and bread. 

But when the rolling smoke curls toward the sky 
From towering stacks, the town is swiftly gay. 
The stores are filled with eager, buying folk. 
Men, whistling, go to work with heads held high, 
And happy, laughing children are at play. 
Today there is a sign in belching smoke! 

— May Frank. 
New York Times. 



rhe elm trees catch the morning light 

Bright, clear, and cold. 
They warm its pure and radiant white, 

They mellow it to gold. 

Light, light, a flood of light 
Around them and below! 

I never saw a fairer sight 

Than these elm trees aglow. 

And I who see eacii sun-showered tree 

In yellow splendor shine 
Feel, too, a subtle alchemy 

That makes their glory mine. 

— May Frank. 

THE R. O. T. C. 

Stop! Down the street there comes a file 
Of ragged troops with shuffling gait, 
With lowered eyes and sneering smile, 
The sullen conscripts of the state. 
Oh, stranger, pause and heave a sigh. 
Hats off, the troop is passing by. 

-J. W. Fullerton. 



Waiting the signal gun that sets them free 
Peace hath her victories. 'Tis Eighty-nine. 
Now dusty caravans through Kansas w^eave 
Or halt along the South Canadian shore 
To rush upon the pasture lands, and mark 
The advent of the settler. On foot he came 
Or riding on a mule. In wagon rough 
Or buggy frail he raced across the border. 
Ploughing my grassy waves with canvas spread 
He drove the prairie schooner. The coyote 
Slunk behind the hill, and like a streak 
Before the cavalcade the rabbit ran. 
The blinking owl outstretched his dusty wings 
And flapped along the ground. The prairie dog 
Barked sharplj' once and quickly disappeared. 
With rope and stake and plow the settlers came. 
With ax and spade they scampered o'er my sod. 
The morning sun shone over prairie grasses; 
The evening shadows fell on furrows red, 
On dugout mounds, on huts of sod, and towns 
Where ruddy lights shone dull through canvas tents 
Or twinkled with the stars from claim to claim. 

—Roy Hadsell. 
(Professor of English Language.) 


One time it rained, it did 

And home from church we slipt and slid, 

And all us folks and the folks about, 

Just hustled into our old dug-out. 

'Way in underneath the ground, 
Where there's shadders all around. 
Made by lanterns 'at some one whirls, 
— And spider- things 'at scare the girls, 

And when we'd been in there a spell 
And told the tales there was to tell. 
Folks scroocht around against the wall, 
— Why-then 't didn't 'cyclone at all! 

—Roy Hadsell. 



A Bluebird called to me 
And followed me along. 
He flew from tree to tree; 
He sang a morning song. 

Rain-washed was his coat, 
Blue with scarlet edge; 
Liquid was the merry note 
He trailed along the hedge. 

He tried to tell me something 
But I had not the key, 
No lamp to rub, no magic ring, 
To solve the mystery. 

T could not speak his language 
Nor sing as lustily. 
But I've found out, beyond a doub 
That he was blessing me. 

-Roy Hadsell. 


Near white-ringed clusters bathed in morning dew 

I kneel to pluck the four-leaved clover dear; 

The shady, grassy bank on which it grew 

Was warming with the breath of Summer's cheer. 

I wonder is the good luck superstition true 

Barefooted searchers everywhere revere — 

May I my fading fortunes now renew 

And sail mj^ ventures safely through the year? 

I walked knee deep into an emerald sea; 

The breath of hay-fields came across my way; 

A meadow-lark was singing merrily; 

The breeze which kissed my forehead seemed to say 

Good luck enough on summer morns to be 

Where clover blossoms grace the quiet day. 

—Roy Hadsell. 



It was a widow's mite 
That placed the window there 
Where ghnted the suiiHght 
When eastern skies were fair. 

Rainbows sifted througli 
When days were warm and clear, 
Deep were the colors too 
On Sundays bleak and drear. 

The Savior mild and good 
In garments red and blue 
Sweetly and gently stood 
His ministry to do. 

A pulpit before me lay 
Where a mortal shouted of sin; 
But the window, day by day, 
The Kingdom ushered in. 

—Roy Hadsell. 


The night is still save for the restless waterfall, 

Save for the night owl in a shadowy tree; 

The shallow runnel murmurs low continually. 

The night bird shrills its sad and melancholy call. 

The firelight flickers, red against an enclosing wall 

Of pitchy darkness, deep exceedingly; 

A cave, flame-lined, it makes for me, 

A forest-grotto covered with a pall. 

In rest most weary, and in strife content, 

A fire of logs my earthly monument, 

I lay me down to die a one-day death. 

At morn to rise where slumber comforteth. 

To wake to water-music singing still, 

Eternal music, echoing from the hill. 

—Roy Hadsell. 



Spring set the stage in the Greenwood. 
She awakened the evening breeze. 
She gave me a box by the window 
For the drama among my trees. 

A Parhament of the Fowles 

Seemed set in the theatre. 

But 'twas only the fool of the play-house, 

The mocking-bird, singing near. 

In attitude, voice, and gesture, 

He mimicked his folk with glee; 

He whistled and chuckled and tumbled 

On the stage, alone, for me. 

Then night, a gentle scene-shifter. 
Enveloped the grove with its pall, 
And the Katydid's soft orchestration 
Accompanied the curtain's fall. 

Young Comedy danced in the distance, 
Old Tragedy lurked at hand; 
The scene was prepared in tlie greenwood 
For a new voice in the land. 

"Twas the voice of the turtle-doves near me; 

Or did it bemoan from afar 

The loss of its mate in the gloaming 

To the light of the evening star? 

The Buskin and Sock of the forest 
When the sun sinketh quietly down. 
They came like a blessing to soothe me 
Mansick of the strife of the town. 

They come with the dawn, or with twilight, 

They sing in my shrubbery 

Of the humours: of human endeavor 

Or of Earth's sad sincerity. 

—Roy Hadsell. 



(Asp Avenue) 

The matin call of the whistle deep 

Quickens to life the half asleep, 

Deserted, quiet, college street. 

The walks fill fast with a straggling throng, 

The wintry wind blows south along, 

And men and women in embryo 

Move quickly or sedately slow. 

Time passed, is marked by a rasping bell 
In room and hall. Outside, 'tis well 
The siren's melancholy mournful throat 
The hour of noon should then denote, 
And the steady tramp of many feet 
Resound again on the college street. 

At evening — Ah, my face doth glow 

On the path to-day, as of long ago. 

When night comes down on the college street, 

And lights shine forth, and shadows meet, 

When high hearts voyage beneath the lamp. 

And lover sentries pace the camp; 

At evening I my faith renew 

In the joy of youth on the avenue. 

—Roy Hadsell 


A ragged rout »f travelers, toil-worn 
Athwart my window takes its westward way. 
The creaking sheeted wains the marks display 
Of ruddy soil traversed from morn to morn. 
The trailing hounds, the swinging pail forlorn. 
The heavy-headed steeds, the disarray. 
The pots and pans, my Muse dismay; 
She views the struggling train with scorn. 

Unfaltering moves the laboring caravan 

From hill to hill toward the setting sun, 

From dawn till noon, from noon toward hastening night: 

And window-bound my spirit sees again 

The white-bowed sunlit vans, a distant dun 

Processional majestic in the waning light. 

— Roy Hadsell. 



(Oh seeing him sitting Uy his cabin at twilight on an evening of June.) 

Come in to your rest, Old Chief of the Brave, 
The stars bloom forth from on high, 

The dewdrops are falling, 

The whip-poor-will's calling, 
The daylight fades out of the sky. 

The forest is sleeping. Old Chief of the Brave, 
The buck has Iain down to his rest, 

The river is crying, 

The breezes are sighing, 
The bird slumbers safe in his nest. 

So, why do you tarry, Old Chief of the Brave, 
And why do you sit there so still, 

The night winds caressing, 

Like an angel's soft blessing, 
Your wrinkled old face at their will? 

Tonight you seem dreaming, Old Chief of the Brave, 
Of lands where the Great Spirit dwells, 
Where hunters go roaming 
Through woods of the gloaming, 
Pursuing the deer through the dells. 

Your spirit seems longing, Old Chief of the Brave, ' 
As lonely you sit in your pride, 

To take the trail lying 

Through the land of the dying. 
And pass o'er the soul's Great Divide. 

How staunch your rude faith. Old Chief of the Brave, 
As low your suii sinks in the' sky, 
Would that mine, too, were stronger. 
As life's shadows grow longer, ' '■ 

In years that so. soon must pass by. ' ' 

■ — Ru-do-lph^N; 'Hill. 


It storms! 

The Heavens are rent 

With vivid streak. 

Tips to the ground 

The trees arebent; 

The winds let loose 

Gustily howl and shriek, 

Mufflinjr the thunder's sound. 

It's calm. 

The storm is spent. 

The sky's swept clean — 

The dust from the stars. 

Thanks for storm that's sent 

To clear smoked air, 

Brightening the sheen 

That softens the moon's face scars. 

It storms in my heart. 

I'm rent with wrath and despair; 

But finally the air must clear — 

And as clean stars 

After the rain 

So does my heart hear 

Peace after pain. 

— Zelda Hillis. 


What's this that has hold of me? 
A strange, terrible something — 
An all-enfolding poignancy;" 

A bitter-sweet aching 
Here in my heart that's welling 

Up in my throat and choking! 
Can no one define this thralling thing 

Ah! — I know. It's Love and Spring. 

—Zelda Hillis. 


111 this amber-lighted room 
Where I bring 
My sad thoughts of you 
I lift my tired head 
And strive to sing. 

The song has died in my throat. 
My heart weeps 

The dim room swims thru my tears. 
With each aching note; 

Oh, you were the song in me! 

My soul sang 

In mad, pulsing symphony; 

My bold heart laughed at my fears. 

But now a room all desolate, 

Since you come 

No more. How disconsolate 

My life! Oh agony of longing years! 

With closed eyes, my soul leaps out 

Through space; 
And dimly — clearer — nearer me 
Comes from depthlcss darkness — 

Your face. 

— Zelda Hillis. 


Their spring-kissed freshness 

To the bird's dawn chant. 

Down thru young leaves uplifting 

In misty shafts aslant; — 

I saw the sunlight sifting— sifting— 

I felt deep peace come sifting— sifting— 
In healing, kind relief,— 
Down thru my heart uplifting 
Its pain-bruised burden 
Emptied now of grief. 

—Zelda Hillis. 



Still starlight! 
A whisper in the leaves — 
Sharp-stifled heart beat, 
A step in deep, soft grass! 
Silence — nothing breathes. 
Two pillars yet to pass: 
A moving silhouette, 
A smothered kiss in the night, 
And two souls that love 
Have met. 

— Zelda Hillis. 


Dat Dohcas she so powerful shy 

She keep me on de go: 
She thes keep grinnin' foolish-lahk, 

An' woan' say Yes nuh No. 

Dat Dohcas she so powful shy — 

An' I done tole uh so — 
Ef she doan' weah dat shyness off, 

She gwahn be shy a beau. 

— Roy Temple House. 
(Professor of Modern Languages.) 

The Southerner. 


("Ihr Gesicht glich einem Codex Palimpsestus." — Heinrich Heine.) 

Her face was like a palimpsest 

Where pious monkish fingers trace 

The legends of the somber blest 

Whose chief est grace is Heaven's Grace; 

Those fresh black characters above, 

And underneath them, half-descried. 

Sweet pagan lines, aglow with love 

And golden, golden hopes that died! 

— Roy Temple House. 




I lay in bed one night last week 
And dreamed of home and mother; 
An insect bit me on one cheek, 
And shortly on the other. 

I tumbled over on my face. 
And wrapped the pillow round it. 
My hair's infrequent in one place, 
And this said insect found it. 

I wrapped myself about in clothes 
As if in mid-December, 
With nothing showing but my nose — 
And how he chewed that member! 

At last I fell asleep, and dreamed: 
I'd left these earthly quarters 
And mounted up above, it seemed. 
To join the other martyrs. 

Saint Peter met me with a smile 
So bland his face was puckered. 
"Sit down," he urged, "and rest awhile; 
You're looking pale and tuckered!" 

I sat a spell; but when I rose 
Refreshed, and onward hied me, 
I heard a buzzing sound, which froze 
What blood was left inside me. 

Quoth I, "What is tliat buzzing dread? 
It makes me fairly shiver!" 
"Oh, that's the orchestra," he said, 
Down by the Crystal River." 

Alas! 'twas still that buzzing drear 

I knew the pitch and key to. 

It was no orchestra, mv dear, 


— Roy Temple House. 
The Chicago Daily News. 



(After Edmond Rostand) 
In these dull decades, you alone, O fair, 

Pale Princess, Queen of attitude, have skill 

To wear a lilj^, wield a sword, and still 
The heart a moment, treading a broad stair. 
You rave and stifle in our heavy air, — 

You poetize, and die of love, and kill. 

And dream and suffer, working your hot will 
On helpless hearers, l)ound with your bright hair. 

Avid of suffering, you wound us all; 

Your plaints are echoed through a troubled haill, 

And down your clieeks, 'tis our salt tears that steal. 

And sometimes, Sarah, when your fervent lips 

Spell endless magic, furtively you feel 
The kiss of Shakespeare on your finger-tips. 

— Roy Temple House. 
The Theater Magazine. 
The passing of Bernhardt not so long ago will give new 
interest to these lines, which owe something to two poets. — Editor. 


O stern gray house, I bring you all my wealth; 
Gray house, I bring you all my life and health, 
All in this fragile silken web: 
Oh, tear it not! 

stern gray house, I bring you all my best; 
Gray house, I bring j^ou all my peace and rest. 

All in this clear and ringing glass: 
Oh, break it not! . 

1 bring a trembling bird in my two hands; 
Oh, crush it not in cruel iron bands! 

But give me back one day, still pure and whole, 
Gray house, my baby.'§.. soul! 

— Roy Temple House. 
The New York Christian Advocate. 



"He who works not shall not eat." 
'Twas no warning hurled in heat 
At some shirker in the shade: 
'Twas a plan that Nature made. 
Prince and pauper, here they meet: 
"He who works not shall not eat." 

"He who works not shall not eat." 
He who plies not hands and feet 
Bravely for the common good 
Rusts the wheel that grinds his food. 
Starves amid the fat and sweet: 
"He who works not shall not eat." 

-Roy Temple House. 


Free guests at God's fair country-place, 

We prate, poor fools, of Mine and Thine; 
At meat, we cannot hear the grace 

For quarreling over the wine. 

Nay, cease the dreary bickering 

And make the strength of love thine own: 
'Twill draw the stone from the depths of the spring. 

The spring from the depths of the stone. 

— Roy Temple House. 
The Christian Examiner. 


The rose is blue, 

The violet's red. 
Sugar's sour. 

And the poets are dead. 

— Roy Temple House. 





The Dead of the Titanic to the Dead of the Lusitania. 

Who visits our dim and desolate plain when the waves are calm 

When the winds fare soft and the winter is gone and the sun 

smiles peace and love? 
It was storm and ice and the wrath of the sea that widened our 

ranks before — 
Who is this company, clad like ours, that halts between shore and 

No matter. The past is always past and the future is nothing, 

Hail, band so strangely like our band! — 'Tis little we have of 

But the ocean's bed is a delicate bed, and sleep is a m.erciful state. 
Whether you died by the hand of God or the hideous hand of hate. 


The Dead of the Lusitania to the Dead of the Titanic. 

We come from a world that is not your world of a few short 
months ago, 

For force and wrath are more than pain, and spite is blacker than 

Your names have lived in the hearts of men, writ lovingly large 
and plain, 

But ours are lost in a million more of the deftly, hellishly slain. 

We come from a world that is not your world; we have that in 
our frozen eyes 

That we yearn for the waves to wash upon till the day when the 
dead shall rise. 

There is warmth in the chill of the ghastly sea and the touch of a 
dead host's hand. 

And w • ^iiare your rest with a deep relief you never can under- 

For the ocean's bed is a delicate bed, and death is a blissful state, 

Whether we die by the hand of God or the hideous hand of hate. 

— Roy Temple House. 
Chicago Daily News, often reprinted. 




William the Sane 
Reared it with pain. 


William the Rash. 
Knocked it to smash. 

— Roy Temple House. 



The Old Year's gone; the new year looms 

With all its presentations, 

Its joys, its smiles, its laughs, its tears, 

Demands and explanations. 

Let past be past; look straight ahead 

Into you know not what, 

A.nd be prepared to meet with zest 

Whatever be your lot. 

Don't cross the bridge till it is reached, 

Though it maj^ creak and sway 

Just be prepared to breast the tide 

If mighty spans give way. 

The Old Year's gone; the New Year looms 

With all its thousand cheers: 

Let past be past; look straight ahead 

Into the best of years. 

-Bert Huddleston. 
Oklahoma Daily. 



One we look for, one we welcome, 
One we're always glad to hail: 
One who we all know is faithful 
Is the man who brings our mail. 
Eager co-eds at the windows, 
Watching, hoping all the while, 
All await the mailman's coming 
With a sweet, half-pleading smile. 

He brings little joys and sorrows 

Through the rains and hails and snows, 

Never flinching, never lagging, 

Smiling bravely as he goes. 

He's tlie man we love — the mailman — 

He brings letters every day; 

Brings those longed-for friendly greetings 

From the loved ones far away. 

Smiling bravely, though the weather 
Is such that we can't be out, * 
He's ahead of early classes 
When he starts upon his route. 
Every day he carries letters, 
Papers, magazines, and bills — 
Every day the mailman's package 
Has a thousand little thrills. 

-Bert Huddleston. 
Oklahoma Daily. 



'Tis day 

The sun is shining 

There's gladness in the air 

'Tis gay 

The birds are singing 

Oh — Joy is everywhere. 

You heard 

That note of gladness 

In the cricket's song just tlien? 

That bird! 

The blissful badness 

As that sparrow chirped again. 

You see 

The flowers blooming 

The emerald leaves and grass. 

With glee 

The streams are twinkling 

With water clear as glass. 

'Tis day 

Is that the reason 

For all the joy and cheer? 

'Tis that— 

But, too, the season 

For Spring — glad Spring is here. 

-Nannie Jackson. 

*Title by the editor. Miss Jackson's death occured in Feb- 
ruary. 1923, while she was a student in this university. 



A thousand years ago I heard the songs 

That bards sang, in the courts of knightly men. 

Of gallants who went forth upon the sea 

In good stout ships to win both praise and fame; 

For, those who ventured far upon the deep 

Sang the same tunes as ship-prows cut the foam 

As did the wandering minstrels in the halls 

Of inland castles, far from stormy seas. 

I was a mermaid in those years that now 
Are dead. The dusty ancient manuscripts 
Which hold the secrets of that legend time 
Lie dim and useless on old closet shelves. 
And even I who loved that far-off age 
Do not take down tlie musty books to read 
The magic stories that I used to know, 
When I swam near the ships of sailor men. 

When I stretched glorious tail on slippery rocks 

Rejoicing in the colors, green and gold. 

And dried my glowing hair under the sun, 

How often would I sing sucli strange, sweet things; 

My heart aches now, for I cannot recall 

One note or tone I sang so merrily. 

And only in my dreams can I yet hear 

The mellow music that I used to make. 

But in my sleep what happiness I know. 
My soul drinks deep, it steeps itself in joy; 
Again my fins shine in the ocean wave 
Again I play with little soft-eyed fish 
In hidden places ui.derneath the sea. 
I gather up such pretty, pretty things — 
Bright tender shells, white coral, green seaweed, 
And racing with the breakers near the beach 
In glee I throw them up upon the shore 
Then watch the children finding them at play 
Who marvel at the wonder of such things. 
A thousand years it was, a thousand years! 
Then was I mermaid playing in the waves 
Then was I mermaid merry in the sea. 

— Louise Jackson. 



I sing of love — its happiness, 

Its look of wonder and of awe; 
I sing of pain — love's follower, 

Pain after love, 'tis law: 

Pain after love, 'tis law. 

I sing of youth — its laughter, 
Its sorrows and its tears; 
I sing of age — its learning, 
Joy after all the years; 
Joy after all the years. 

— Winifred Johnston. 
( 'I'cacliiiig Fellow in English.) 


The olden bird of China is singing in my heart 
Singing all its promises that we shall never part, 
And thrilling in its ardor — intoxicating me — 
The nightingale has brought the impossible to be. 

The old, old bells of China are beating in my breast 
And beating there the pulsing tom lias given me no rest, 
Dulling in their power, they bring a strange relief; 
The temple bells have forced the Christian to belief. 

— Winifred Johnston. 


As youth goes singing down the street 

Enraptured of life's wonder, 
He passes by with footsteps fleet 

(And recks not of his blunder), 
The beggar old he dreads to meet — 

Blind Age, who askes for alms: 
He hastens by with flying feet 

Ignoring outstretched palms. 
And he who begs in storm or heat. 

With wistful glance and sigh. 
Recalls his own swift youthful feet 

Which passed the begging by. 

— Winifred Johnston. 



Color and wind and music 
And the kindliness of home; 
But better have I remembered 
The cool, moist touch of loam. 

The cool, moist touch of loam turned 
Sunward by the plow 

Would sootlie my feet like friendly hands, 
Were I in plowland now. 

Color and wind and music 
And the kindliness of home; 
But better have I remembered 
The cool, moist touch of loam. 

-Maurice Kellev. 


Water that valley pools have caught 
Fonns shimmering, silver spots; 
And old shocks speck the hillsides 
With misty polka dots. 

Horses, feeding on the grass 
That summer rains have made, 
Bend down like silver images 
In flower-pied fields of jade. 

riic amljer, sun-beat plowlands 
Roll northward fold on fold. 
Where autumn charges rashly in, — 
To die in flames of gold. 

-Maurice Kellev. 


(Izaak Walton) 

For musing, give him hours still quieter 

Than bass-pools of silver in secluded nooks. 

And thoughts more beauteous than the forms that leapt, 

Gilded with sunshine, to seize his feather hooks. 

— Maurice Kelley. 



Dawning begins and I must be departing, 
So give a staff and I shall rise and go; 
Not with the hue and cry of passioned parting, 
But silently and still as melting snow. 

You have been kind to me and all my fancies 
And though I have not been here over-long. 
I have found joy in books and men and trying 
To honey silence with my simple song. 

For songs like mine are not impassioned burstings 
Of gusty rain storms from an April sky; 
Nor will they march to clangorous, gleaming cymbals; 
— I cannot be Miltonic when I try. 

So take these songs that I shall leave behind me. 
Read them and wait until I come again 
To bring you songs like oaken leaves in autumn. 
And orchardsides grown lyrical with rain. 

— Maurice Kelley 


How like some high-born youth you were 
When first your flashing life began. 
So sharp, so clean, so readily bent 
To work the will of any man. 

You were so keen, you loved the light, 
You flashed with joy on sunlit days — 
And then you went into the fight 
And learned the lust for sordid frays. 

Now you are battered, bent, and brown; 
Awed children view you from afar 
And dream of things they'll do some day. 
How like some scarred old man vou are! 

— Maurice Kelley 


Softly and silently 

Up the dark coast, 
He slowly comes a-crecping 

Like a gray ghost. 

Like a ghost lover 

Lost on the sea 
He comes to me caressing 

Cold and clammily. 

But as a ghost lover 

Must leave with tiie day, 
He gathers up his dripping shrouds 

And softly slips away; 

And softly slips homeward 

Out where the foam 
Licks the broken-masted merchant-men 

That never come home. 

Maurice Kelley. 


Springtime had given a thousand lustrous tintings — 
But what did I care for color on spring days? 
I was too full of zest and joy of living 
To care for plowlands lavendered with haze. 

And then the autumn woods stood bright and blazing, 
Then like a dying fire grew black and sere, 
I was appalled by that swift transiency 
Of beauty fled in less than half a year. 

And then I dreamed of blue hills, grasses waving. 
Of all doomed beauty that could never last. 
So like a spendthrift penitent of wasting 
I sang of beauty after it had passed. 

— Maurice Kelley 



I would give you rich music 
Like wine that is old 

On grey flutes of silver 
And hautboys of gold. 

I would revel with brownies 
Beneath a grey moon 

To the rich clownish antics 
Of an age-old bassoon. 

I'll sing no more music 

Of a sad strain 
Like oboes in darkness 

Crying out pain. 

I shall sing out tomorrow. 

I shall sing ere long — 
But now my best poems 

Are grey ghosts of song. 

— Maurice Kelley. 


A silence oppresses 
And no winds blow; 
The pear trees are silent 
As fallen snow. 

Now poised like dancers 
At a break in the tune. 
The pear leaves are silvered 
With lacquer of the moon. 

The dancers sigh. 
The winds sift through, 
And the glimmering dance 
Begins anew. 

— Maurice Kelley 


Oh, take tlie board I eat upon 

And take my silver flute, 
But do not ^teal my ^i't of song, 
For that would leave me mute. 
For that would leave me mute and sad. 
Disconsolate and gray; 
Laden with half a hundred tilings 
I could not sing or say. 

-Maurice Kelley. 


With joyous shouts and childish play 
They frolic through their twelve-hour day. 
With leaps and bounds they run about 
And yelp and yell and howl and shout. 
They beat each other on the dome 

And doctors take the injured home. 

Their lives are free from all dark care, 

They never worry anywhere. 

They lead a life of perfect ease 

And play wild games and climb wild trees — 

We need say no "If's" or "But's" ' 

For they are pure and simple nuts. 

-Ed Kerrigan. 



Out of a world of things, some few you share with me. 

Not loneliness, nor pain, 
Nor poignance of sheer beauty need there be 

To wake your voice again. 

A shop-window stuffy with fabrics, where a dull vase smoulders 
blue — 
Gleam of wet roofs in the distance — steps hurrying past through 
the night 
— And pausing, I rededicate to you 
A song I shall not write. 

— Muna Lee. 
/ Copyright by The Smart Set Co., Inc. 


The blackbirds fly before the cold, 

The painted grosbeaks go; 
Not any tanager is so bold 

As to brave the snow. 

There's a look of storm about the skies, 

There's trouble in the west; 
And Love, who's old and very wise, 
Love flies off with the rest. 

— Muna Lee. 
From "Sea Change." Copyright, 1923, by the Macmillan Co. 


I would sing with my lips to the lips of a sea-shell, 
I would sing to the thrush and the cardinal-bird; 
1 would sing though the singing breezes heard me, 
Though the tall field-grasses and light rains heard. 

For 1 have a song is fit for the singing, 
And a theme unmatched till the world be done. 
Though never a heart on the wide earth heed it 
But mine, and another one! 

— Muna Lee. 
From "Sea Change." Copyright. 1923. by tlie Macmillan Co. 



The east unrolled a sheet of gold, 
Gold for river and flower and limb; 

As Helen once to Paris was 
Was I to him. 

All things gold fade graj' and old, 
Even the sun of love grows dim; 

As Helen now to Paris is 
Am I to liim. 

— Muna Lee. 
From "Sea Change." Coijyright, 192.S, by the Macmillan Co. 


I can forget so much at will: 
That first walk in the snow. 
The violet bed on the wet spring hill, 
The song wc both loved so: 

Even the rapture of love's magic hour. 
Even the anguish of love's disdain, 
— But never, but never, the little wliite flower 
We found one da^^ in the rain. 

— Muna Lee. 
From "Sea Cliange." Copyright, 192,3. l)y the Macmillan Co. 

The editor regrets that he could not secure iicrmission to 
reprint more of Muna Lee's work. 



I wonder as I walk, 

Peering about the street, 
After what strange prey stalk 

These palpitating feet, 

Men and W'Omen and men 

Pattering to and fro — 
Where can it be they have been. 

Where do they think that they go? 

Lights blink over my head, i 

The lights dazzle my eye; 
There were torches in Egypt 

Flickered as dazzlingly. 

People under the torches 

Hastened at evening then. 
Hurrying people in Egypt, I 

Men and women and men. 

Somewhere a quarry of some sort 

That we are grim to meet 
Quakes or laughs at the thunder 
Of our advancing feet. 

— John McClure. 
Copyright by The Smart Set Co., Inc. 


A memory of lost faces 

Rises like a wraith from the sea 

On a salt and bitter wind. 

I should be afraid to look on those streets again 

Misty at evening: 

There is cruelty in vanishing images 

And I am afraid to remember, 

Awakened in a new country 

A long way from my dream. 

— John McClure. 
Copyright by The Smart Set Co., Inc. 



A corbie sat on a willow tree. 
He sat a-singing mockingly: 

"Your songs shall fade away 
Like rain on a grey day. 
Your books shall rot and rust 
And vanish in brown dust. 
And one day none will know 
You ever prattled so." 

I puffed my pipe and said: 
"Ay, I shall soon be dead. 
I shall be dead, no doubt, 
Ere this new year go out. 
And devil a whit I care. 
How these my song-books fare. 
I know as well as you 
What I am coming to." 

I puffed my pipe and said, 

A-nodding of my head : 

"My songs shall be 


And well I know 

That it is better, better so." 

-John McClure. 


Wind in the rainswept night 
Whips back the curtains. . . 

Lightning in a golden blaze 
Burns old days upon me. 

A passionate apparition. 

You return with the thunder. 

— John McClure. 
Copyright by The Smart Set Co., Inc. 



Who shall rcnK'nibfi' longer tlian a day 

The beauty and the l:)loom 
Of any splendour man my snatch away 

From the quick claws of doom? 

Pictures of flaming beauty, or the tune 

Smitten from cymbals clear 
By mad musicians, giddy with the moon, 

Tliese cannot persevere. 

The glory and the proud grandil()(]uence 

Of power and renown 
Scatter before tlie winds of circumstance 

Like golden thistle-down. 

— John McClure. 
Copyright l)y The Smart Set Co., Inc 


The proud Semiramis in hell 

Is not so full of pride as we 
Whose heads are giddy with old rhyme 

And echoes of lost minstrelsy. 

Tliough she remember Babylon 

And Babylon's I)ewitcliing sin. 
Her memories are not so rich 

As those of rhyming gentlemen. 

Drowsy witli ancient dreams we sit. 

Giddy with old forgotten airs, 
More gorgeous than her pageantry 

And sweeter tlian her dulcimers. 

— John McClure. 
Copyright by The Smart Set Co., Inc. 



I dreamed. Along a village's highway 

A great procession thundered through the tlirong 

With music making all the village gay — 

Drums and calliopes, trumpets and great song. 

The ral:)ble shouted. With a mighty blare 
The brilliant floats and carriages swept past, 

While clowns danced madly with a jaunty air, 
Baubles and gee-gaws to the children cast. 

And he tliat made the merriment rode, too — 
His face be-painted, in a fool's array — 

He was a rich man spending thus his life, 
To make his fellow-people glad and gay. 

God! How he laughed and bantered merrily — 
Yet in my sleep I bellowed. "In this town 

Of merriment and laugliter all are gay. 

And very light at heart, except the clown." 

— John McClure. 


God was disturbed in Heaven, 
Up rose to Him again 
The thunder of a million guns 
And curses of mad men. 

Ciod leaned Him from His Iiouse of peace, 

He saw a vast combat, 

A million in the Valley of Death 

And all liell glad thereat. 

God said "Let this dammed slaughter cease." 
But from his valley grim 
Deatii witii cackles of musketry, 
Laughted long and loud at Him. 

—John McClure. 
September, \')\4. 
Title by the Editor. 



From bedlams of bewailing 

On this unhappy night 
My idiot dreams embattled 

Come swarming forth to fight. 

From hells as black as madness 
And ancient as despair, 

They stalk their ravished beauty, 
Loss made more fair. 

And where it was they lost it 
On what highways of hell 

They cannot now remember 
Nor do they care to tell. 

They seek its fiendish ravishers. 
Waving their insane plumes 
They go in ghostly combat 
To their unearthly dooms. 

— John McCIure. 
Copyrijrht by The Smart Set Co., Inc. 


Wakeful beneath the crisp, clean sheet, 

Fanned by the midnight breeze, I lie 
And listen to the rhymic beat 

Of nature's midnight minstrelsy. 

The great trees thrill with crickets; frogs 
Croak from the pond with blinking eyes; 

Cocks wake and bluster; lonely dogs 
Bark fierce defiance at the skies; 

A night-owl hoots his ghostly call 

I lie in childish fright once more. 
How real the world is, after all! 

I had not known before. 

— ^John McClure. 
Copyright by The Smart Set Co., Inc 



I was as witless as the heathen kings 
Whose only good was gold and minted ore, 

Being too weary with too many things 
Ever to think of beauty any more. 

Music was nothing, nor the sound of song. 

Beauty forsook me with no parting word. 
I was a drudge who had forgotten long 

All comely tunes that I had ever heard. 

Then- — -was it Campion or Hesperides? — 
A note of silver broke tlie obscene spell. 

To the far chiming of old minstrelsies 
My heart responded like a brazen bell. 

And there was panic in my dreams once more — 
Old tunes returning to the tocsin's beat. 

The old dreams rampant at the brass fanfare 
Trampling each other under dancing feet! 

Alarums of beauty made a panic there 

Like gongs of silver in a Chinese street. 

Copyright, The Smart Set Co., Inc. 
— John McClure. 


I would paint the star's desire 

And the comet's yearning, 
I who feel my head afire 

And my fingers burning. 

And is painting foolisher 

Than another calling? 
I will paint the stormy air 

And the planets falling. 

I will paint the Paraclete; 

He who looks shall find it: 
Color painted on a sheet, 

Mystery behind it. 

— John McClure. 
Copyright by The Smart Set Co., Inc. 



The waves are galloping ponies 

With winds in their flying mane, 
That run and nibble the sugary sand, 

And scamper away again. 

The waves are glittering tigers 

Flung snarling on the land. 
That writhe and twist in the grips of death, 

And claw away the sand. 

The waves are purple elephants 

That charge with sudden roar. 
That trumpet and shout to the shaken moon, 

And trami)le away the shore. 

The waves are green-haired mermaids 

With thrifty little liands, 
Who, fetching l)rooms and pails and mops. 

Come bringing back the sands. 

— Mary Carmack McDougal (Mrs. Axelson). 

New York Times. 


We cannot breast the white floods of the moon: 
They soon will rise and sweep all earth and sky. 
Beloved, let us fly! There yet is time 
Before they reach us and we drown and die. 
(O sweet, mad, sweeping flood tide of the moon!) 

'I'lie moon has swept away the anchored stars: 
Its wliite floods rise and pour upon the town. 
OMy Beloved — we have stayed too long — 
The wild moon floods have caught us, and we drown! 
(O sweet, mad, swcejiing flood tide of the moon!) 

— Mary Carmack McDougal. 

C()ntcnii)()rar\' Verse. 



The Lord God painted the sunset 

And hung it against the sky, 
Tlie Lord God tore up the great ribbed rocks 

And flung them mountain high. 

And I have ruffled the thin white lawn 
To curtain the window pane, 

And I have mended the broken wall 
Uncertain against the rain. 

The Lord God measured the great green sea, 

And counted its heart in hours, 
He sent his forked fire from Heaven 

To bring him a chart of the flowers. 

And I have made a rainbow thing 
For a quilt on the worn old bed. 

And I have drawn a magic ring 
Where gentle words are said. 

God made the world while lightnings played 

Below the purple dome; 
And under a low roof I have made 

The miracle of home. 

— Mary Carmack McDougal. 
New York Herald, often reprinted. 

In a national contest, conducted by Mrs. L. A. Miller, chair- 
man of literature for the general federation of women's clubs, 
this poem, submitted by Miss McDougal of Sapulpa, received 
the award for lyric poetry. Eighty poems were submitted and 
Jessie B. Rittenhousc was tlie judge! — Editor. 



Cover your faces, O women — 

All you women of Ireland! 

Cover your faces with your long hair 

And weep into its darkness! 

Yet weep not for the lad with the brave gay eyes, 
Not for the lad with the sweetly turned lips. 
Not for the lad with the laugh that is stopped — 
No, not for Michael Collins, 
Although he lies strangely straight and still. 
Yet weep not even for him! 

Cover your faces, O women — 

All you women of Ireland! 

Cover your faces with your long hair 

And weep into its darkness! 

Yet weep not for her whose spirit walked always at his side. 

Not for her whose eyes leaped to his eyes. 

Not for her whose laugh answered his laugh, 

Not for her whose heart spoke to his heart. 

No, not for Kitty Kiernan — tlie woman 

Whom this man loved — 

Weep not even for her. 

Weep not for Michael Collins, the quenched flame; 
Weep not for Kitty Kiernan, the broken flower. 
But weep, O women, 
For all the lads of Ireland — 
The glorious lads of Ireland, 
Shattering each other's beautiful bodies, 
Breaking each other's quivering hearts — 
Brother against brother — 
Brother against brother! 

Weep, all you women of Ireland, 

And weep all you women of the world, 

Until your weeping is always a pitiful murmuring in their ears — 

Hntil your tears are always a pitiful dripping on their hearts! 


Until they shall let their guns fall to the ground, 
Until they shall stretch out their hands to each other, 
Crying, "Brother! Brother! Brother!" 

Cover your faces, O women — 
All -you women everywhere! 
Cover your faces with your long hair 
And weep into its darkness! 

— Mary Carmack McDougal. 
New York Times, often reprinted. 

A fine, impassioned poem. All friends of Ireland will rejoice 
that the tears of civil strife seeni now to have been wiped away. 
— Editor. 


I marvel at Man. 

Flung through time and space. 

With burning stars about him, 

He busies himself 

Making shiny little mouth harps , 

And red flowered axminster carpets 

And strange mouldy cheeses. 

He suffers through 

A torturing hell of his own making. 

And then jests about the trenches 

And makes quips about bombs and typewriter guns. 

Yet in his soul, vast stretches eternity 

And light and darkness forever contend. 

And in his heart is rising 

A great tide of revolt 

Which will sweep away 

This man-made-hell. 

As he makes shiny mouth harps 

And red flowered carpets. 

And jests about war — 

I marvel at Man. 

— Mary Carmack McDougal. 

Contemporary Verse. 



The fog was banked above the bay 
In shifting mountains for a day, 
With purple valleys leading down 
Into the dreaming, purple town. 

Between the hills tlie white fog drifts 
And from the canyon drives and lifts — 
Lost angels with their wistful wings, 
A-vveary with long wanderings. 

The fog above the streets at night 
Is strangely red against the light; 
An unreal glory sifting down 
Upon the sick and garish town. 

And all tlic day and night it seems 
That all tilings pass except my dreams; 
The mountains fade, the glory dies. 
The lost white angels search the skies — 
But all the day and long night through 
T hold mv deathless dreams of you. 

— Alary Carmack McDougal. 


You told me of your days in the war, and your voice went 
on into silence — and the silence was like a sick thing that drags 
itself into a corner to die. 

We walked, singing, through the wood, hand in hand and 
then we fell silent — and our silence was like a broad-winged 
silver bird floating high above the trees. 

You turned to me with the sunset on your face, and cried 
ni\- name, and tliere was a sudden silence — and the silence was 
like a great flaming lily that bloomed as we looked — flinging 
forth red and purjjle stars. 

Now you are gone, and the whole world is filled with 
silence — and the silence is like a thin gray mist, ever sifting, 
sifting, sifting through the stubble of an old corn field. 

— Mary Carmack McDougal. 


At school she wore old clothes 

Given her hy the neigli!)ors 

Who meant well without doubt. 

She always had a dragijled, down-at-the-heel look, 

And hurried tlirough with her studies 

To get home to look after 

Innumerable little brothers and sisters. 

For her mother was forever ailing 

And her father usually drinking 

And always vicious. 

I do not think her body was very strong 

For her great eyes always looked weary. 

At any rate she died quietly one day, 

And the neighbors chipped in and bought her a casket dress. 

It was the only new thing she had ever worn 

I'll warrant, 

And it was not beautiful, 

Being selected for neatness. 

And because it was cheap. l)eing marked down for a sale. 

And so she was buried — never having once complained 

At not having pretty things 'like other girls.' 

And now I think of happy, chattering girl angels 

Snipping and fitting, 

Busy about lur. 

Lengths of sun-lace cloth. 

Scarfs of moon glamour, 

And gorgeous draperies of flaming cloud. 

Her great eyes sparkle like the stars 

Enmeshed in misty hair. 

Her poor tired heart catches the lilting laughter 

Of the maids 

As she surveys herself in Heaven's mirage 

Made beautiful at last, 

A glittering drudge. 

Maybe I only think of her thus. 
Because it makes me more comfortable. 

— Marj' Carmack McDougal. 
Stratford Journal, reprinted often. 



I was alone in a beautiful world, 

Alone with my boat and the sea — 

In a moon-white world. 

In an old, old world, 

Where no man lived but me. 

I steered her straight for a far, dim light 
On the edge of the old, old sea; 
For a lone, far light, 
For a half-dreamed light, 
Where the harbor called to me. 

And then went blooming a hundred lights 

As I steered her in from the sea; 

And I grieved for my world, | 

My beautiful world — 

But the harbor had called to me. 


Then I heard far sounds from the docks and streets— J 

I had almost done with the sea. 

I had lost my world, 

My old, old world 

Where no man lived but me. 

The laugh of a woman, the bark of a dog 

Came flaunting the sound of the sea; 

I had sailed from yesterday 

Into today — 

All — but the heart of me. 

— Mary Carmack McDougal. 


Tonight two crystal mocking birds 
Two little silver mocking birds 
Two starry-hearted mocking birds 
Sing in the moon's delight. 

They fling out glittering silver chips 
That fall as if from laughing lips 


Or jewel crusted finger tips — 
All in the moon's delight. 

They fence with sparkling beaks of glass 
That shine like steel, that glow like brass — 
They thrust and fence and feint and pass, 
All in the moon's delight. 

They go weaving crystal rainbows in the moonlight 
That shatter into tinkling, cooling rain, 
They go blowing silver bubbles in the moonlight 
That float and break and form and float again. 

They fill the air with wheeling birds 

With flame-blue wings and crimson breasts, 

With jet black wings and yellow crests, 

That soar moon-wise, and sing 

Their own sweet, gay or plaintive songs — 

My mockers make them all. 

There in the white moon's thrall. 

There in the moon's delight. 

— Mary Carmack McDougal. 

New York Herald. 


You could have taken a black-snake whip 
And lashed me over the eyes — 
You could have struck me full in the face — 
But you chose — to tell me lies. 

Yet the cut of a whip is straight and clean 
If the heart that strikes be strong, 
But the wound from a lie is a fetid thing 
That draws and festers long. 

The liar is born with the yellow streak 

Men shun from sea to sea. 

You can go and hunt with your coward pack — 

You have lied your last to me! 

— Mary Carmack McDougal. 

New York Times. 



When they were grown into stalwart men, 

The fabulous Wolf-Twins of long ago, 
Did they remember the dark wolf den, 
And the gray wolf guarding their slumbers then. 
In the life that they used to know? 

Were ancient memories put to flight 

By their busy lives; or across the years 
Did they hear the call of the wind at night. 
And the long wolf howl through the still moonlight, 
Sound echoing in their ears? 

It may be that shadowy visions returned, 

That memories haunted and followed them still. 
Of fathomless forest where green eyes burned. 
Of the wild wolf life; and their whole hearts yearned 
Toward their Palatine home on the hill: 

Toward the gray wolf mother, with hackles alift. 

At the rocky mouth of the dim-lit cave. 
Where the light seeped in through the caverned rift, 
Past the lean, dark muzzle that paused and sniffed 
At the warning the sharp winds gave. 

It may be they tired of the strange man ways. 

And longed to be free of their man-made thrall, 
That visions flitted before their gaze 
Like shadows seen through a distant haze, 
And they longed to return to their wild wolf days 
And answer the wild wolf call. 

-Violet McDougal. 
New York Times. 



The wind sweeps in from the marsli at night 

And wails like a lost banshee. 
And I go down from the quiet town 

To stare at the roaring sea. 

The wild wind, shrieking of distant lands, 

And the green surge, rolling free, 
And the riding lights of the ships at night, 

Are signals that call to me. 

r watch how the vessels lift and swing, 

In the teeth of the racing tide. 
Where the great waves roar on the rocky shore 

And the pitching barges ride. 

So I dream of shipping before the mast. 

And sailing to foreign lands — 
Of cutting a way through the salt sharp spray 

To tropical coral strands. 

I have watched the vessels for foreign ports 

Stand out to the open sea, 
And I must go where the great storms blow 

And the lashing wind roars free. 

It may be that I shall come back again 

To the peace of the little town. 
Where the hyacinth grows, and the prim hedge-rows 

Run neatly up and down. 

It may be that when I grow tired and old 

Then the little town will call, 
And the quiet days and the sunlit ways 

Shall please me most of all. 

— Violet McDougal. 
New York Times 




One night, one crystal night of many nights 

I rode upon the bus past Riverside, 

Past the slow wonder of the Hudson, where 

The ships lay still, with steady riding Hghts 

Reflected in the silent water. There 

I saw the shallow, white-lit ferries glide. 

With phosphorescence trailing overside. 

And I was silent, gazing, but ahead 

In front of me, a dark-browed, swarthy man 

Broke into Yiddish, and across the aisle 

A man slid into rapid Spanish, while 

We lumbered past. A young Italian girl 

Spoke smoothly; like cool rain upon white stones 

Her soft voice rippled on. I wondered then 

If they were saying all the things that I 

Was feeling; things I could not even try 

With my slow western speech to compass yet — 

About the Hudson tangled in its net 

Of wet meshed silver. 

— Violet McDougal. 
Argosy All-Story Magazine. 


The crowd is here night after night 
Beyond the hard, white glare of light, 
Expectant faces, row on row 
To watch me while I poise and throw 
The gleaming knives that cut the air 
And hissing strike the rough boards where 
She ptands with outstretched arms. The crowd 
Sits rustling, inurmuring aloud.. 
They watch the wicked knives that hiss 
T-ike hooded cobras, — if I miss — • 
i'he long knives leap out, serpent-wise. 
Thin, evil darts. Her laughing eyes 
Are unafraid. I hem her in 
With whizzing blades. A sudden din 
Of swift applause goes sweeping by 
And every night I wonder why 
My hand held steady. Will it be 


The next night with them watching me 
The next night that my sure hand sUps 
And laughter leaves her painted lips 
The knife that like a thrown thin flame 
Licks out and sears, will end the game? 
The lean knives pin her to the boards 
And satisfy the eager hordes 
That watch their vicious whizzing flight 
I wonder — will it be — tonight? 

— Violet McDougal. 
New York Times, often reprinted. 


The fishermen say, when your catch is done 

And you're sculling in with the tide, 
You must take great care that the Sea Wolf's share 

Is tossed to him overside. • 

They say that the Sea Wolf rides, by day, 

Unseen on the crested waves, 
And the sea mists rise from his cold green eyes 

When he comes from his salt sea caves. 

The fishermen say, when it storms at night 

And the great seas bellow and roar. 
That the Sea Wolf rides on the plunging tides, 

And you hear his howl at the door. 

And you must throw open your door at once. 

And fling your catch to the waves. 
Till he drags his share to his cold sea lair, 

Straight down to his salt sea caves. 

Then the storm will pass, and the still stars shine, 

In peace — so the fishermen say — 
But the Sea Wolf waits by the cold Sea Gates 

For the dawn of another day. 

— Violet McDougal. 
New York Times, often reprinted. 



The lights were changing red and green, 

With dragon emblems everywhere, 
The lights were writhing serpentine 
And spreading silver, and the street 

Was blue with incense in the air, 
And stealthy with small padding feet. 

The windows full of strange cut jade. 
And elephants of carved black teak, 

Weird smiling Buddhas. subtly made, 

And Imrnislied dragons, many scaled. 
I heard a slant-eyed woman speak, 
A singsong chant, as though she wailed. 

We saw tall smoothly ]ac(iuered jars, 
And gilded chains, and Chinese gongs, 

And doors with heavy metal bars. 

And Chinese zither-players there. 

With strangely wailing Chinese songs 

And incense heavy in the air. 

Strange Oriental faces came 

To stare at us and disappear 
In darkened doorways, with the same 
Cold slanting eyes, impassive gaze, 

And catlike footfalls everywhere, 
j'hrough crooked streets, a tangled maze. 

— Violet McDougal. 
Argosy All-Story Weekly, 


Our apish forebears clung to trees. 
In times far antedating these — 
In sleep would cling with hands and toes. 
They wore no high-heel pumps nor hose- 
So Darwin says — I guess he knows. 

If they lost their hold, you see,- 

And tojiplcd down from out their tree, 


Wild animals were all around 
To grab them when they hit the ground, 
With teeth all primed and set to gnash, 
Through cutlet, steak, or fresh ape hash — 
Careers were ended with a crash! 

But those who wakened with a start 
Did not become Ape a la carte. 
They locked their toes in tighter hold — 
The fit survivors, we are told, 
I.ivcd to become both grey and old. 

We dream of falling, while in bed; 

We waken with a start instead. 

The instinct that our forebears knew 

Is handed down to me and you. 

We might have missed the whole Big Show 

If Grandpa' Ape. so long ago 

Had not waked just in time, you know! 

— Violet McDougal. 
New York Times. 


(There is a legend in the north that the souls of men and 
women who have been frozen to death, roam the snow fields, 
attended by white wolves.) 

This is a white and empty land. 

No sound against the iron band 

Of steel, chill stars that rim tlic world; 

No sound where furious waters hurled 

Against the chalk cliff's gleaming face 

Fall frothing at its iron base. 

The silence feels an eerie croon; 

I hear them sweeping up the trail — 

The riders of the silent gale. 

And white wolves singing to the moon. 

The stars are freezing to the sky 
Without a sound, so still they lie. 
And cold above the strange ice glare 
So still- -above tlie wild lights flare 


That signal dawning and the swift 
White leaping waters surge and lift. 
They break the silence with their rune 
Far swinging on an unknown trail 
With laughter rising to a w^ail, 
And white wolves singing to the moon. 

— Violet McDougal. 
New York Times. 


In the hills of Kentucky, or so I've been told, 

The natives are awfully wild — 
They are rude and uncouth, but their hearts are of gold 

And tliey never wear shirts that are biled. 

The women are mostly named Lizbuth or June, 

Their hearts are incredibly pure. 
They love to steal out 'neath a low-hanging moon 

And snipe at a stray revenoor. 

They're startlingly beautiful, coy as gazelles — 
They run like possessed from a stranger; 

But they eat from his hand with shy maidenly yells, 
When convinced that thar h'aint any danger. 

The men are all named either David or Judd, 

They stand six feet two in their sox — 
Except they don't wear 'em. They're thirsty for blood 

And they shoot from the shelter of rocks. 

Their spare time is passed in the pleasantest way, 
When they rest from their arduous labors. 

Each cleans up his rifle or gun, so they say. 
And goes out to pot at the neighbors. 

They live on corn licker and feuds, I am told. 

And terbacker is chawed all the time. 
No one in Kentucky can ever grow old — 

He is killed ere he passes his prime. 

— Violet McDougal. 
New York Times, several times reprinted. 



I sit and watch the very old; 
Their heads are bent, 
Their eyes grown cold — 
Is it contentment that I see. 
The quiet of tranquilhty — 
Or is it merely apathy? 

Their eyes are calm, their faces still, 
And they can tell us if they will 
The thing that always puzzled me — 
Is calmness only lethargy 
Through days that pass unmeaningly? 

I wonder if their placid air 

Is just because they do not care? 

With nothing more to do or be, 

If all their still placidity 

Is merely aimless lethargy? 

I wonder, are they satisfied, 
With no experiment untried. 
And do they smile at such as me, 
Who fret and struggle needlessly- 
Or is it mere passivity.' 

I sit and watch the very old — 
What is the secret that they hold? 
I wonder, are they glad to be 
Like that, and sit contentedly 
While davs and nights pass endlessly? 

— Violet McDougal. 
New York Times. 



Wild water! through a stolid town! 
The people trampling up and down 
And laughing loudly, come and go, 
Wild water! And they do not know 
Nor understand the fierce, bright thing 
That leaps beneath the wooden bridge. 
They laugh and pass, and idly fling 
Torn cand}' wrapping, emptj- tins 
And stubs of burnt-out cigarets 
Into the roaring whirl below. 
And laughing loudly on they go — 
Each passing quickly soon forgets. 

They do not see tlie leaping gleam 

That cuts athwart the narrow street — 

That foams and seethes beneath their feet 

And roars against the cold cement 

That marks its narrow channelled path: 

Nor hear the tumult of its wrath 

Beat up until the air is rent. 

They, idly curious, watch awhile, 

And grinning, idle on, intent 

On dances, or the latest style. 

These people cannot understand. 
The only water that they know 
Must come in faucets and must flow 
Swiftly or not as they shall turn, 
And hot or cold beneath the hand. 
For has it not been always so? 
And there is uselessness and waste 
In waters that will surge and sweep 
And crash in never-ending haste. 
The surging waters seethe and hiss— 
The people grin and eat and sleep. 
They know the water is not deep. 
Wild water! in a town like this! 


-Violet McDougal. 
New York Times. 



When people laugli and sing. 

I will be sad. — 

For you will not be there. 

When skies are blue and bright 

They will not seem 

As .once they seemed to me. 

But when the twilight comes 

And stays with me 

In quiet, evening gardens, 

My heart will find your thoughts 

In the wind, 

.A.nd in the stillness of the flowers. 

— Mary McKinney. 


If I should take my idle dreams. 

Like bits of tattered lace, faded violets. 

Or faint, blue ribl)ons. 

And place them l)ack. 

Back in my heart. 

As in some unused volume, 

I wonder — like the violets and lace — 

Would tliey l)rcak the binding of my heart? 

-Mary McKinney. 


If I had known how tired you were, 

I would have sent you things 

To rest your heart. 

I would have brought you quiet gilts 

To cool your acliing days and nights. 

To calm your dreams. 

I would have sent you dreams of winds, 

Winds that blow ripples in the fields 

And stir the lakes. 

I would have sent you thoughts of nights 

And twilight shades and pale, cool moons. 

If I had known. 

— Mary McKinney 



Today 1 would make little songs 
Of the faintest breezes that blow, 
Of the green slimness of blades of grass, 
Of one small flake of snow. 
But how can I make little songs 
When the mountains reach so high 
And I feel the great hushed silence 
Of the deep blue sk}^? 

— Mary McKinney. 
The awe-inspiring influence of nature in her "grand man- 
ner" is here deftly suggested. — Editor. 


The night is a dancer 
Last night her dance 
Was glad. 

Her heart made tunes 
For the trees to sing 
And the stars were her laughter. 
• But tonight she is sad 
There are sighs instead of tunes 
For the trees. 

She has forgotten to dance. 
And the stars are her tears. 

— Mary McKinney. 


With the droning hum 

Of the low tom-tom, 

And the steady beat of the many feet; 

With the wild weird cry 

Of the owl near by, 

Came the night of the warriors' dance. 

With dark bronze faces 

And gorgeous laces, 

With bodies straight and stately gait; 


With black liair streaming 
With black eyes gleaming, 
Came the warriors to the dance. 

The moonlight beams, 

The campfire gleams, 

The tall trees sigh as the wind rushes by; 

The squaws smile in pride 

At their slow solemn stride, 

As the warriors march in the dance. 

There is happiness there 

And joy fills the air. 

They have forgot their hopeless lot: 

They are kings once more 

As in days of yore, 

As they swing to the warrior's dance. 

— Ruth Margaret Muskrat. 


'Cross the sky-blue water 
Glides a light canoe, 
'Tis your warrior father 
Coming back to you. 
O'er the towering tree tops, 
Where the gay stars peep, 
Fall the timid dew-drops. 
Sleep, my papoose, sleep. 

Sleep, my papoose, sleep. 
Close your weary eyes: 
While the shadows creep 
And the pine tree sighs; 
Wliile the winds are blowing 
And the camp fires leap. 
Father's homeward rowing. 
Sleep, my papoose, sleep. 

Sleep, my wee papoose 
In the evening breeze, 
I will guard you close 


'Neath the sheltering trees; 
While the coyote's wails 
'Cross tlie lone hills sweep, 
Sleep while daylight fails, 
Sleep, my papoose, sleep. 

-Ruth Margaret Muskrat. 


Take lier away, and lay her gently down to rest 
Beneath the cool grey willows tliat she loved to hold. 
And lay this starry' flower on her breast 
In lier slim brown hands, so icv cold. 

La)^ her where the rippling of the Spavinaw 

Can lull her dreamless sleep witii its incessant song, 

Out where the sunshine, slanting througli the leaves can draw 

The flowers from the earth to make her liours less long. 

Take her now, my hours of tryst are over, 
There's nothing else for pain to feast upon, 
I gave her all, and. to her cold grave yonder. 
All light and life for me have gone. 

Wiiat difference now thai I was born a paleface. 
And she was Nunili Waiyali, a Redman's child? 
She waits my coming out in that eternal space. 
Her love by Deatli's cold witliering blackness undefiled. 

And when 1 go through worlds to meet her 
Out in the twilight realm of dreams. 
Our love will then be but the sweeter 
For the crossing of Death's sullied streams. 

— Rutli M^argaret Muskrat. 



Suartliy, inissliapen Vulcan, 
Burnt with his own fires, 
Was crafty, was skihul — 
Caught in a net 
Venus and Mars. 

So \\ouhl I, 

Though my dark and formless self 
Writhes in a torment of passions. 
Catch with subtly woven w^ords 
Beauty and power. 

Miriam K. Oatman (Mrs. F. F. Blachly). 


^Vith drooping head and weary shoulders bowed 
The old man plays his organ lor the crowd. 
Grinding the harsh metallic notes that beat 
Piercingly througli the clamor of the street. 
The tune ends, and the player, with the air 
Of a dog wliipped, faces his listeners there. 
And cringing, fawning, tragically meek. 
Holds a worn hat, their scanty alms to seek. 
That slavish gesture, and that melody, 
Bring tears of shame and pity, blinding me, 
And in my heart a bitter wrath is bred 
That man is not yet man, nor bondage dead — 

For the old organ-grinder, begging, plays 
The terrible lieroic Marscilldisc. 

— Miriam E. Oatman. 


All day we were together by the sea 

Romping like children, digging in the sand. 

Watching the tides creep slowly to the land. 

Hearing the waves break, drop, hiss furiously. 

I gave you food: you paid for it with fee 

Of shells and sea-weed. Laughing, hand in hand 

We could forget, could ]iard!\- understand 


The sorrow that was threatening you and me. 

But when a low sun crimsoned sea and sky 

And the last hour of our last day we knew, 

We laughed no longer; words were strained and few — 

"I shall remember always, dear" — "And I" — 

The final moment summoned us to part. 

"Kiss me once more!" j'^ou cried, and pressed me to 3fOur heart. 

— Miriam E. Oatman. 


It was SO still, that silence languished for a whisper. 
It was so hot that pale flame cowered on the mesa. 
A vulture, in the palsied blue above a lone foothill 
Reposed upon its silken couch of ether, dozing. 
And all the twisted desert people mutely smouldered. 
It was so hot — and still. 

It was so clear tliat cities swam up out of nothing. 
Tree-shadowed ponds of silvery, lilied whiteness, glistened. 
The mountains, poppy-bosomed on the monstrous hem of distance. 
Withdrew their filmy veils of finest-woven purple 
And leaned their naked shoulders to the raptured canyons — 
Tt was so clear. So clear! 

It was so grim, that danger tottered in its cavern. 
It was so bleached, that whiteness groped its way, snow blinded. 
Upon the pallid rock the lizards, flat and soundless 
Slid slowly eastward toward the promise of a shadow. 
There was no place to kneel in all that shriveled vastness. 
That was so white — and grim. 

— Jennie Harris Oliver. 

This poem won a prize of $25 offered by Mrs. D. A. Mc- 
Dougal for the best poem by an Oklahoman. The University 
cannot claim Mrs. Oliver, but we can be. and are. proud of 
her talent. — Editor. 


Wilderness river, that comes from the alkah lands, 
Stretching from west to east with long fleshless hands, 
Telling the lowlands strange tales of the far upland sands, 

I rest on thy bluff and look down in the sunset glow; 
Broad at my feet is the bottom that stretches below. 
Splotched with crimson and brown where the wagon tracks go. 

Beyond through the brushwood and ivy and half-naked trees, 
Tangled with willows and rushes that swish in the breeze, 
I see the broad bed of the river, white through the trees. 

Waterless sand-bed that gleams like a desolate way. 
Drifting and shifting and swirling in clouds like the spray 
Flung from the rocks when the waves are at stormiest play, 

Such as I see thee wast thou in the earlier days. 
Crimson with sumac and gray with December haze, 
Tangled with rushes and frost-colored willow maze. 

So went the gray swirling sands in thy waterless bed; 
So through the scraggly brushwood and high overhead 
Swept the fierce wind that is heedless of living or dead — 

Passed the wild wind with a desolate, desolate shrill. 
Restlessly seeking in river bed, upland and hill, 
Ceaselessly wailing, and loving the loneliness still. 

So, in some yesterday's twilight that seems long ago, 

The bold-hearted sons of the Chickasaws passed to and fro, 

Tracking the treacherous quicksands gleaming below; 

Stood with dark faces uplifted and turned to the light. 
Hearing the far cry of geese in their swift southward flight- 
Stood for a moment, then turned and passed into night. 

So might I love thee, O river, despite of thy ways. 
Learned of the upland Southwest in the old prairie days, 
Wert thou to chant through the rushes thy wilderness lays; 

Tell of the warriors that passed like the breath of the blast— 


Wail for the thunderous herds that are scattered at last — 
Chant the jjreat sonj? of the prairies and wild-hearted past. 

Silent tlie river: it may not reveal what it knows: 
Gone are the olden days; only the wind as it blows 
Swishes its way through the rushes and shrieks as it goes. 

V. L. Parrington. 
(Sometime Professor of English Literature.) 


O Pilot, wisdom's love, fair knowledge brought to fruit, 

Forget us not, thou steadfast one; nor ever mute 

Stand we before mere rank or undeserved fame, 

But lead us upright, brave, God's children, worthy of this name. 

And grant our minds, unvexed by passion's gust}^ storms. 

By dusty dogmas, empty errors, hollow forms. 

Shall seek pure knowledge, — justice clad in radiant light: 

W'itli all our questings may we seek and save the right. 

Along sound learning's paths, l)y waters bright and deep, 

Our minds from erring ways, our hands from folh' keep. 

() radiant stars, God's lights above this little world, 

So lately steeped in passion's crimes, so backwards whirled. 

Sweet influence shed within all troubled, anxious hearts 

In schools, in courts, in fields, at homes, in dusty marts. 

That all may feel our kinshij) to the soul divine, 

And drink the cuji ineffable of wisdom's sweetest wine. 

— Francis Paxton. 

(Professor of Greek and Classical Archeology.) 
Read at tlic ban(|uet of Oklahoma Alpha, May 11, 1923. 


The blackbirds gossip glibly in their trees. 
One redbird flutes his clear, persuasive call. 
The mockbird drowns the drowsy hum of bees, 
A sunlit sky broods warmly over all. 

— Francis Paxton. 


The pontiff in his chair, 
Clad all in purest white, 
Comes down Saint Peter's aisle 
With Peter's ring bedight. 

"Viva il Papa!" rings 
Up to the dome's far height, 
At sight of one small man 
Berobed in dazzling white. 

Hearts whose faith's all lost 
Thrill now with strangest awe; 
See visions of mj'stic years — 
The Prophets and the Law. 

— Francis Paxton. 


One night of May in Arno's stately city 

From garden moonlight-drenched there came a ditty 

Of plaintive roulades so delicately sweet. 

And trillings fleet. 

The}- stirred the tranquil air 

With flutings rare 

Of tragic story, a legend hoary. 

That told of love and lust, of blood and stark despair. 

O sweet Philomel, 
No longer tell so wondrous well 
That dark and seamy tale, 
Long told in Theban vale, 
Of man's accursed deeds as black as hell. 
But tune me now thy throat 
To some serener note 
Of passion pure,- and j'earning 
That burns the dross of love, and 
counts as gain the burning! 

So may this weary world, its gory flags all furled, 
Rest from war's alarm, all peaceful in hamlet and farm. 
Until in God's good time the poets sing no rime 
Of battle's bloody deeds or victory's jangled cliimc! 

— Francis Paxton. 


Dressed in his jaunty coat of blue, 

And white vest, too, 
He bobs and hops like Billy Sunday — 

A pjossiping Mister Grundy. 

A diplomat, suave and courtly betime, 

He's well-nigh sublime; 
Anon he can swear like a trooper, 

The impudent snooper! 

Cuss-words he screams at Bushy Tail 

(He'll land in jail!) 
Peeping, prying at everything, 

He steals like a king. 

But when he's in love — ah me. 

Honey sweet his wheedling can be, 

Playing only and ever a neat part. 

He sings mighty small to his sweetheart. 

-Francis Paxton. 


"The bravest of all are the Belgians." — Caesar. 

Brave little nation of toilers. 

Bravest of all the brave. 
Trodden by reptile .spoilers, 

Triumphing over the grave! 
Drag now the days so bitter 

(Grinds the gods' great mill!) 
Spoilers shall vanish as litter — 

Abides thy godlike will! 
None shall station deny thee. 
When strikes the hour of fate; 
None but madmen decry thee, 

Warder of freedom's gate! 

— ^Francis Paxton. 
His secretary sent King Albert's cordial thanks for the above. 



McH build forever their harriers — 

China's Great Wall — 
Why imagine a vain thing? 

Barriers but fall. 

Barriers of castes or classes 

Build they with rules — ■ 
Burdens for laden toilers, 

Rewards for fools. 

Men build forever their barriers — 

Tutankhamen's tomb; 
Come curious diggers prying — 

A museum's room. 

Our castles on Time's wide beaches 

Swept by his tide, 
But float or fall to his pulsing — 

No whit can abide, 

But we forever must build them 

(O dear to the heart!) 
Tho Destiny cannot save them, 
" And all must depart. 

Likewise my throbbing blood 

Builds brain and brawn, 
But Time his siege-lines draws 

And soon — I am gone. 

-Francis Paxton. 


Soldier or sailor, nurse or doctor, or airman brave, 
You who softness scorning served and died to save. 
You there follows across the sullen and sluggish stream 
The hope of hopes that falters, but follows forever the gleam! 
You we send our prayers, our tributes of love and tears — 
You shall lend us scorn for sluggard's or coward's fears. 

— Francis Paxton. 
From "The Victory Sooner," 1919. 



(A doughboy speaks) 

Yes, man}' a fight has brought delight 

To doughboys brave and merry, 

But narj' fight was quite so right 

As that of Chateau Thierry. 

Ah yes, my dearie. 

Chateau, Chateau, Chateau. Chateau Thierry. 

Them swift marines sure earn their beans, 

And every plunk on payday; 

For- they've got grit, git-up-and-git, 

And scraps to them are playday. 

Ah yes, my lady. 

The fights, the scraps, the rows, — just playday. 

Our sons-of-guns they beat the Huns 

Up hill, then down the valley. 

And climbed the crests and singed their nests, 

And busted every rally. 

Ah yes, ma cherie. 

Chateau,- Chateau, Chateau, Chateau Thierry. 

That hot-foot day, so bright and gay — 

Cold steel, then rush and volley, 

That Yankee bunch they had the punch, 

And landed it, by golly. 

Ah yes, tres joli, : 

They landed, landed, landed it, by golly! 


-Francis Paxton. 



A Memory 

Banked with pansies wet, with roses glintingly gay, • 

Bright with costumes picaresque, the bravery of May, 

The yellow stairs rise leisurely, from the fountain's flashing 

level — 
On the right John Keats -gasped out his life, poor passionate 

devil! • - 

Here Sallust's gardens began; the path leads on to the hill 
Where Bersaglieri play, and Jack parades with Jill. 
The great world, too, drives lollingly by, bedizened and shining 
('Tis done, they say, sometimes at cost of beggarly dining!) 

Maestro Mascagni yonder conducts some mellifluous fluting, 
Or athwart the deepening dark fly fireworks hissingly shooting. 
Beyond old Tiber's stream looms high Saint Peter's dome, 
But despite these solemn splendors there throbs a heartache for 

"Mid pleasures and palaces" — you were right, our vagrant, John 

Howard Payne,— 
The time must come in our wandering when we thrill over 

"Never Again!" 

— Francis Paxton. 

I 101 I 


Love is a purple tinted feather 
To tease my nose with 
And make me sneeze ecstatically . . 
Or to juggle on my chin . . till I tire 
Then blow it away 

'To juggle six orange balls 
Is more amusing. 

— Leslie Powell. 


Every night 1 set 
The moon ... a great white egg 
Nested in the apricot tree; 
There's a song inside 

and a bird to sing it, 
When it bursts its shell 
And perches on the telephone pole. 

-Leslie Powell. 


Somebody put the soft pedal 
On a nocturne ... so far off 
It seemed to sing inside of me. 

-Leslie Powell. 



O, you who have never known freedom, 

Pity the likes of me. 
Who am as a leaf in a great storm 

Blown over land and sea! 

Who am as a wrinkled and sere leaf 

Torn from a rotten limb 
To fall, or to fly from the wooded hills 

At the tempest's whim. 

Sailors have certain beacons 

To follow night and day. 
And men of the soil are chained 

Relentlessly for aye. 

But 1 am a flitting .-tranger 

To every alien corn. 
Soothed at starlight and moonrise 

And fevered with the morn. 

And like a leaf in a great storm 

I am blown over land and sea. 
O, you who have never known freedom. 

Pity the likes of me! 

— Lynn Riggs. 
(Sometime Teaching Fellow in English.) 
Copyright 1922, The Smart Set Co. Inc. 


One was more comfortable than cattle at gaze: 
I couldn't stand her after two days. 

One was as beautiful as a shepherdess: 
She didn't know how to dress. 

One was brilliant like ice: and yet 


Ice will melt, and water is wet. 

One was lovely as a petal flown: 
I let her vo3^age on alone. 

One was tragic, one was a clown: 
Both were tiresome. Thumbs down! 

Most were happy, some were sad: 
I forget to remember — all were mad. 

-Lynn Riggs. 


Stephen is an animal 

Out of his position; 
Stephen loves in women most 


Stephen has a merry eye; 
Lightens every try he makes 
At tragedy. 

Stephen loves the brimming board 

And a whiskey glass; 
Stephen gets cadaverous 

Making early mass. 

Stephen has a wicked heart; 

Charity to him 
Is modelling with praises 

An unshapely limb. 

Stephen will not sink beneath 

Earth or wave: 
He will float, or play leap-frog 

On his grave. 

— Lynn Riggs. 


Shawn and the rest of his drunken crew 

Hammered on the Teepee door; 
And the dark night shudderingly withdrew 

As the red revelers swore. 

And the 'n^-^s zd uiii ser:.''^- --^uctnie 

Became a bedlam place 
With mad witch minsic and throbbing dmuims 

And the glitter oi swords and lace. 

Why were they there in the naonming light, 

Shawn and his scarlet bajmd? 
WTiat venerable, rathless, wild deligh* 

Retumed with him to the land! 

8Bt they Tdio passed in ike grej deia:. 

They of the drooping head. 
Looked neither to right mar la 'i-trs jc'r ikej kvew 

Shaspm dud his crrzc -L-vr-r St'ii<d. 

— -Ljun Itiggs. 


Let them say this oi r.i 

If they say anything: 
**WTiether God or the devil oxdaintd n 

Tit T':"'~' ~i^'Sl 

"'Color of wind and mannBg, 

Color of d-oSiC aid word. 
Somnd of the siormiiag sea is"S;— es- 

Souinds nnheard — 

"Of these wnere his songs arErr-itr 

In souse degree. 
He has been happy — he wiH be happy 
Forgotten -ntteTly-" 

— L5":ni3 Rix:g5, 
CopjT:gr;i 192S. Z':.t Smirl Set Cd. l^c 


(To J. M.) 

Let there be a bust here 

To a gray lad 
Who sang quaint elf songs. 

All that he had. 

All that he was, even 

All he might be, 
Ran in his gay songs 

Of odd minstrelsy. 

Let them keep a memory 

Alive by this bust 
To call back his spirit 

When he is dust — 

To call him from the gray lands 

Beyond the sun's rim. 
With wee fairies dancing 

Always to him! 

— Lynn Riggs 


1 should like to dazzle 

Like a bursting star, 
Or drum on the timbrels 

Where the worldings are. 

I should like to sparkle 

Like a wild wine. 
Setting heads a-reeling 

Foolishly as mine. 

Where the dark corners arc 
I would not be, 


Who could be a buccaneer 
Striding down the sea. 

But thougli the brightness beckon 

I shall retain 
Memories of niustiness 

And memories of rain, — 

Memories of rain falling, 

Silver on the eaves, 
And the cool silken music 

Of whispering leaves. 

— Lynn Riggs. 
Copyright 1922, The Smart Set Co. Inc- 


These thin, impudent letters — 

What can they say? 
Life is so damned disastrous 

And yet so gay! 

And all of the matchless colors 

Of sunrise and of song 
Can never live in these letters 

Nor last as long 

As the passing of great wings in darkness, 

Or the sudden and fleet 
Footsteps of Beauty passing 

In wild retreat. 

And what can one say in sorrow? 

What is there to say 
Of a bird flown through the window 

And a soul blown away? 

And these thin, impudent letters — 

Why must they prate 
Of Life, so damnably petty 

And yet so great! 

— ^Lynn Riggs 




Out of the barrenness of earth 
And the meager rain — 
Mile upon mile of exultant 
Fields of grain. 

Out of the dimness of morning — 
Sudden and stark 
A hot sun dispelling 
The hushed dark. 


Out of the bleakness of living, 
Out of unforgivable wrongs, 

Out of the thin dun soil of my soul — J 

These songs. 


Only the rhythm of the rain 

Can ease my sorrow, and my pain. 

He was a wilful lad, 
Laughter the burden he had; 

Songs unsung haunted his mouth 

Velvet as soft airs from the languid south; 

He was sprung frotn the dawn, 
Flame-crested. He is gone! 

Only the lashing, silver whips. 

Of the rain can still my lips 

— Lynn Riggs. 
Poetry: A Magazine' of Verse. 



(A Roman Legend) 

"Why do I walk in the shadows, 
And why do I peer 
Into the shaking shadows 
When no one is near? 

"It was just such a night as this, 
My friend and I 
Walked in the cemetery 
When no one was nigh. 

"Under the frowning head-marks 
His clothes became a stone. 
And he became a werwolf, 
Howling and alone. 

"Who ran and hid in the myrtles. 
And I, with wild cries, 
Fled startled from the terror 
Of unseen eyes; 

"Fled in terror to a friend's house. 
And when I came there 
They had killed a wolf, and singing 
Rent the night air. 

"Laughter ran, cymbals crashed. 
And great torches burned, 
Because they had killed a werwolf. 
But my friend never returned. 

"And so 1 walk in the shadows 
World without end. 
Seeking vainly in the shadows 
My dead friend." 

-Lynn Riggs. 



Come with me, Beauty, help me view the world! 
Out of the window look: a muddy road 
In which two pigs are wallowing; and curled. 
Like a snake to strike, a down-lashing goad 
Falls on the flanks of a reluctant horse 
Bound to a wagon loaded high with swill; 
The driver sits and jeers, holding his course 
Down the wide alley; barrels slosh and spill. 

What of it, Beauty? Your myopic view 
Blurs the bright vision to a Whistler gray: 
And shadow shapes toss their fantastic mane, 
And move, a silver sulistance, down the way 
Where the wind lies in wait and blows the blue 
Frail curtaining beatitude of rain. 

— Lynn Riggs. 


Beauty has gone! I have seen her glimmering 
Alien again in the thick of purple haze 
That rolls beneath the trees on brick-red days 
Sleek as still waters or a blackbird's wing. 

Beauty has gone — I think she must be here 

Hid behind tiie Autumn's scarlet veil. 

1 cannot find her though I try with tear 

And .-.mile and tear, like Galahad for the Grail. 

I am lost in straight walls of the thought of men 
Beauty could not inhabit if she willed. 
O, who will lead me till my cries are stilled? 
O, who will bring me to the plains again? 

— -Lynn Riggs. 
11 101 


Is tlierc anything so !)eautiful, 

The gift of Nature's loom, 
As the white lace gown the pear tree wears, 

Her Easter time costume? 

Exquisite, snow-white drapery, 

Billowing fold on fold. 

Patterned like ornate tracery, 
Loved in the days of old; 
Point desprit with petals delicate 

In patterns picturesque; 

Designs fantastic, intricate. 

Like Moorish arabesque. 

There's nothing quite so beautiful. 

The gift of Nature's loom, 
."Xs the white lace gown the pear tree wears. 

Her Easter time costume. 

-Lyndal Swofford 


Each spring it climbs my sleeping-porch at home, 
Festoons its trailing sprays from post to post, 
Weaves in and out its verdant woof and makes 
A curtain cool of dark green nottingham, 
Splashed thick with pendent drops of pale, pale gold, 
Like rain fast falling in the morning sun, 
And little breezes, lost within its folds. 
Shake out faint melodies of fragrance — 
Of memory-laden fragrance. 

To-day I passed a honeysuckle vine 
And I was home again. 

— 'Lyndal Swofford. 
A charming poem true to life. — Editor. 



Sing of the wrath of Achilles, the son of Peleus, O, Goddess, 
Anger that w.rougjit the Achaeans a thousand dreadful disasters — 
Many the souls of the valiant were they it banished to Hades, 
Yielded their bodies a prey to the dogs and a banquet for vultures. 
Always his will was accomplished just as Jove had ordained it, 
Clear from the time when first the warrior-king, son of Atreus 
Quarreled with the noble Achilles, and from him parted in anger. 
Which of the gods was the cause of contention between the two 

Leto's and Jupiter's son was. He sent a plague on the armies, 
Being enraged at its captain because this son of Atreus 
Slighted a priest of his, Chryses — for this so many were 


Chryses, the prophet, had gone to the swift sailing ships of 

Laden with numberless riches, as gifts to ransom his daughter, 
Bearing a scepter of gold with Apollo's insignia on it, 
Cla.sped in his hands the device of Apollo, the far-shooting 

These were the words he addressed to all of the hosts of Achaea. 
This said he to the sons of Atreus who were at the head of he 

"Sons of Atreus! and You ye other well-armored Achaeans! 
Unto you may the gods, whose homes are the halls of Olympus, 
Yield up the city of Priam and bring you safe to your homeland; 
Only return me my daughter and take in exchange this fair 

Thus will you honor Jove's son, the far-shooting archer, Apollo." 

All of the other Achaeans shouted, at that, their approval; 
Taking the bountiful ransom, to honor the plea of the prophet. 
Not so the son of Atreus — this did not please Agamemnon, 
Therefore he harshly dismissed him, laid on him tliis heavy in- 
"Let me not find you. old fellow, near to my hollow Armada, 
Loiter no longer around here, never return again hither. 
Else wmII the scepter and sign of the Archer no longer avail you. 
I'll not release your child till age comes upon her in Argos, 


Weaving, and sharing my couch, at my home far off from her 

But come! Rouse me no further to fury if you would depart 

hence in safety!" 

These were his words and in fear the seer heeded his orders — ■ 

Sadly he wandered away to the shores of loud-roaring ocean — 

Drawing apart from the throng he invoked thus the aid of 

Called on the name of his lord whose mother was Leto, the fair- 

"Lord of the silver bow! O thou, the protector of Chrysa! 

Harkcn, I pray thee, to me thou guardian of holiest Cilia! 

Mightiest Ruler of Tenedos! Pestilence-banishing Angel! 

Grant me my wish, if I ever roofed thee a temple or ever 

Burned for thy pleasure the fat thigh quarters of goats or of 

Grant that the Grecians requite my tears at the price of thy 

Thir. was his prayer, and Apollo, the shining, had heard him. 
Down from the heights of Olympus he came with a heart hot in 

Borne on his back was his bow and a covered quiver of arrows, 
Shaken by angry steps they rattled and clanked on his shoulders; 
Grim as the shadows of night, he advanced into range of the 

Seated before the Armada, then drove down an arrow among 

Dreadful the sound that arose at the clang of the silver metal. 
First he turned on the mules, and then on the swift-footed camp 

Then on the warriors themselves he hurtled his sharp, biting 

missiles — 
Ceaseless, the funeral pyres blazed up in every direction. 

— A. C. Shead, Translator. 
(Assistant Professor of Chemistry.) 



All day in the grassy bottoms 
The dim, blue smoke hung low, 
And here and there where it thickly rose 
Shone the fire's dull orange glow. 
The darkness comes, and the heavens 
Are flushed with the rosy light. 
As the flames keep up and onward. 
Through the stillness of the night. 

For now on the rockj' hillsides 
The slow fires climb and crawl 
Till they come to the level uplands 
Where the grass grows thick and tall. 
And there on the heights they hold revel 
Till famine their ardor chills. 
For the last of the grass is burning. 
As they dance all night on the hills. 

Of old the fierce Fire-spirit 

Claimed all there lands for his home, 

And gathered his grassy harvest 

Wherever he listed to roam. 

But now he may wander only 

Where the new conqueror wills. 

And this is his death-dance tonight up there 

On the height of the distant hills. 

' — Zoe A. Tilghman. 


By the well Three Maidens sit; 
Fast their skilful fingers flit. 
Comes one riding haughtily — 
"Maidens, weave a cloak for me. 

"Finely wove and richly wrought, 
Fashioned fair, with skill and thought. 


Make a kingly rol)e for me, 
Fit for wear of royalty." 

"Care and skill shall not be lax, 
'Tis for you to bring the flax." 
Gold and jewels, too, he brought. 
And the cloak the Maidens wrought. 

It was crimson as the flame 
Where his ruthless armies came; 
Purple, too. as ran the flood 
Of a hapless people's blood. 

For the wasted lands once green 
Emeralds shone, and in between. 
Golden wheat-ears richly carved, 
For the helpless folk who starved — 

Sacred gold that once had stood. 

Candlesticks before the rood. 

It had rubies blazing red, 

Wrung from hearts that mourned their dead: 

And for ravished maidenhood, 
Broidered pearls that softly glowed. 
It had diamonds pure as dew, 
For the innocents he slew: 

And the opal's changing hue. 
For his pledged faith proved untrue. 
So for him the Maidens Three' 
Wrought the robe of empery. 

— Zoe A. Tilghman. 



(The princess' page hears his mistress' sonnet and sings 
beneath the window.) 

As I stand singing here, 

Thy hopeful page, 
Hear how our love has come 

Thru every age. 

You were Semiramis, 

Daughter of Doves, 
I was high Nebo's priest. 

Child of hot loves. 

You were Tyndarida 

In flaming Troj\ 
I was that lad of lusts, 

Paris, your toy. 

You were fair Egypt 

With soldiers and ships, 
I was a mocker there 

E'er seeking your lips. 

You were Lucretia 

Whispering lies 
Stilling my heart awhile 

With treacherous sighs. 

(At "this point the princess' husband intervenes and the page 
vanishes prudently.) 

— John Woodworth. 



These four alone I love: 

Curling mists of leaden grey 

Slow-dripping music of barren limbs, ^ 

Surcease sweet in vesper hymns. 

The comfort of a closing day. 

— John Woodworth. 



The University Bulletin has been established by the uni- 
versity. The reasons that have led to such a step are: first, 
to provide a means to set before the people of Oklahoma, from 
time to time, information about the work of the different depart- 
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publishing of reports, papers, theses, and such other matter as 
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Communications should be addressed: 


University of Oklahoma Bulletin, published by the univer- 
sity, is issued semi-monthly. Entered at the postoffice at Nor- 
man, as second class matter, under act of congress of August 24, 
1912. Accepted for mailing at special rate of postage, as provided 
for in Section 1103, act of October 3, 1917, authorized on July 8, 1918.